His Last Vow
by Monika Krasnorada
Summary: Picking up where Series 3 ended. Sherlock and John navigate new information that will change the course of their lives.
1. Chapter 1

**CHAPTER ONE**

Sherlock watched, a silent sentinel, standing between a static Mycroft and one of his innumerable, faceless minions, as the sleek black sedan moved across the tarmac to where they waited in front of the plane. As it approached and pulled to a stop, he was hit with a moments de ja vu. That stomach in the throat feeling as you fall; as he fell more than three years ago.

His fists clenched tightly against the small of his back at the recollection, fighting against that moment of terror he had had to overcome. All the planning in the world hadn't given him a 100% chance of success. Luck, loathe as he was to have depended on such a whimsy, had been on his side.

That no longer seemed the case at present.

Mary exited the car first and he noticed immediately her coat. Bright red. A signal? Overkill. It wasn't needed. Her victory was appallingly apparent in the swell of her belly, the shining smile on her face and the fact that Sherlock was to shortly board a plane to a very limited future.

_Well done, you._ It was all Sherlock could do to keep from pulling his hair from the roots in utter despair.

A victory, though? _Really, Sherlock? _Victory would indicate a competition. And, a competition would entail multiple participants. _You were in this one all alone, Sherlock. Remember that._

But, then John emerged, coming around the car to join his wife as they both approached Sherlock. There was no smile

Sherlock welcomed them with a smile as if they are there to see him off on holiday.

"You'll look after him for me, won't you?" He teased, warm, familiar as he leaned into Mary's embrace, refusing to shudder with repulsion as he kissed her on the cheek in continued affection.

He must have been convincing in his performance as she teased back. "Don't worry. I'll keep him in trouble."

_No, you won't. I made certain of that with a bullet to someone's brain._

"That's my girl." His smile is tipped with sadness, but there's nothing to be done about that. He i_s _sad. Being forced to leave the one place he loves most, the job that was his life and the man...No. That's done now.

She turned away, back to John and Sherlock looked down, something indefinable on his face. Regret. Jealousy. He hates the thought of leaving John with 'this' woman.

Mycroft remained a blank canvas at his side, obviously taking in every nuance in the exchange. He must be mortified by all this sentiment, but thankfully keeps his observations to himself.

With a nod, John smiled at Sherlock as Mary took her place at his side.

Her place.

Her _place. It should be mine..._

_No._

As the weight of the inevitable, of goodbye, _again,_ pressed down upon him, Sherlock turned to Mycroft, his voice pitched so that John may not hear. "Since this is likely the last conversation I'll have with John Watson, would you mind if we took a moment?"

Mycroft raises his brow in surprise? Confusion? Sherlock imagines his brother's inner dialogue, confounded by Sherlock's insistence to...care. He had warned him not to get involved, the dangerous disadvantage, but Sherlock had been doomed from that first meeting at St. Bart's.

Resigned and possibly out of sentiment of his own, Mycroft nodded to the man with him, obviously giving his consent to give them time alone.

Sherlock hid his surprise as Mary moved away with the two men without influence. She had nothing to lose, after all.

When the three are far enough to offer a semblance of privacy, Sherlock turned to John who was standing at parade rest, his default stance in the face of nervousness and seriousness. He knew Sherlock was aware of that, there was no hiding anything from Sherlock Holmes, after all, so he nodded to Sherlock again, all military stoicism intact.

A tight smile graced John's small mouth, and he nodded again, as is his wont to do, "So here we are." He cleared his throat, a tell Sherlock had learned had a myriad of meanings. The detective won't infer what it might mean in this context.

John took a few steps closer to Sherlock, who stood in mirror image to John; back stiff with hands clasped behind his back. Sherlock's fists clamp tightly together to physically restrain himself.

To keep from reaching for something he could never have.

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes." His deep voice announced without hesitation in firm but quiet authority. He can only hope John hears it for the revelation it is.

All of who Sherlock is, revealed to John. Given freely. He has given everything he has. All of it. His life. His future. He has laid himself bare to John Watson since his return. He is nothing but raw flesh to John now. Flayed open to the bone to the one person that will ever see him. Has ever seen him.

There will be no other.

"Sorry?" John tilts his head, the momentousness of Sherlock's reveal completely lost on him.

_Oh, John._

"That's the whole of it, if you're looking for baby names." A quip. An incongruous tit for tat, but right in this moment. They always had the laughter, so many light-hearted moments (though inappropriate they may have been). But, it's also a throwback.

_The Woman._

What _had _been the motivation for John to offer his name up like that? A name he so thoroughly hated and didn't share with anyone.

Had it been jealousy that caused John to toss his own name out there, putting it between Sherlock and Irene to remind Sherlock there was someone else there, too? Unnecessary, in the extreme.

_Stupid, stupid. _Why hadn't he _paid attention? _She had never meant anything more to him than a puzzle.

It was always John Watson.

John's smile was downcast. Was he thinking of that moment, too? Did he remember it the same? Was John possibly tucking his name, that last bit of him, away for safe-keeping?

_Pull the other one, Sherlock._

John chuckled and it's music to Sherlock. A baroque symphony.

"No, we've had a scan, we're pretty sure it's a girl."

Ever more data Sherlock was unaware of. A scan. Of course. Sherlock didn't know this. Should he have known this? Why didn't he know this? Ah. Yes. He had been held in custody for the last few weeks, while the whole of the British government had plotted and schemed over the best way to dispose of his ilk. With the least public impact as possible, of course. Heaven forbid Sherlock Holmes be the cause of an English uprising. Imagine the non-conversation over the tea trolley then.

Apparently, life did not stop when Sherlock wasn't around.

John and Mary, now with irrefutable proof of three. A girl. In just a few short weeks there would be more of John Watson in the world. More of him than Sherlock will ever get to know. A tiny piece with John's fathomless blue eyes that will grow, nourished on the smiles and laughter that Sherlock covets.

His eyes are laser-focused on John. He will remember every second of these last moments with John if he has to delete every type of tobacco ash known to mankind, the decay rate of lung tissue in acid, the entire works of Bach to make room in his mind palace, then it will be done. Every twitch of eye, flutter of lash, curl of lip. Every last crease and crag, every last line that is graced and blessed to write itself across that golden skin. The flash of light that gets to play in the calm blue serenity of the only eyes he ever lost himself in. Every breath that serves to preserve the perfection that is John Watson.

He will remember.

"Oh, ok." Sherlock's lip curled in the least facsimile of a smile he could ever remember making and he turned away, looking across the airfield. At nothing.

He should be used to that by now. Had better get used to it. But, he doesn't want to, not again, Two years of endless nothing in his quest to end Moriarty's reign was more than enough. Nearly more than he could bear. Running to the far corners of the earth, places and people and cultures that did nothing but reinforce the gaps in his knowledge. Seeing so much and looking at everything but never finding what he yearned for:

John Watson.

Not fair. He doesn't want to be gone again. He doesn't want to disappear. The invisible man.

The moment between them is awkward again. Unknown, the way they were that first meeting at Baker Street. It's like reliving those long, painful days after his return from the 'fall'. How did this happen?

It shouldn't be like this, now that this is really goodbye. Final. The End.

John looked around at the nearly empty airfield, just a nervous gesture. Both are feeling the awkwardness of this drawn-out farewell but at a loss as to how to bridge the gap that yawns between them.

"Yeah." John was grasping for something, anything to fill the emptiness. "You know, actually, I can't think of a single thing to say."

Sherlock's brows draw together. "No. Neither can I." He lies.

There are too many things he wants to say.

_Oh, John. Do you remember? I asked you once, our very first night together, what would you say, if you knew you were going to die? What would be your last words at that moment? John. I have everything I want to say to you. So much. Volumes. Libraries of words to fill you with. To praise. Adore. Lo...lovely things that I dream of saying. Have dreamed so long. Nothing but those words to keep me during those long years I was alone and gone from you._

_I'm to be gone again. Never to return this time, John. I'm never coming back to you. To us. What? No. Not us. It was never us. But, I wanted it to be. Desperately._

_Isn't it hideous?_

_But, I did ask you what you would say, and you knew already. You had done it. That fateful, hateful, blessed day under an unrelenting Afghan sun, bleeding out across the sand. You knew what to say. You said it. "Please, God, let me live."_

_There is another question, John. I could have asked it another time, looking down on you from that rooftop, just like now, but I can't. I won't. As before, you can't know this is the end. I'm never coming back, John. But, I would ask. I want to ask. It's a desperation bordering on pain._

_And, fear. I fear an answer. Oh, I could work out the probabilities. The mathematical likelihood of hearing what I ache to hear (I am Mummy's son, after all). But the balance of probability...No. Best not. _

_Six months. I can delude myself for that long. Hell, I've done it for years now. Old hat to me._

_But, oh, how I do wish to know the answer..._

_What would you say if you knew I was never coming back?_

Sherlock takes a deep breath. Focus. No sense in all this now. He can do this. He _will_ do this.

For John Watson, he will endure his own war, his own injury and face his own tragic loss, in order to keep all those things from touching John one more time on his behalf.

"The game is over." Resigned, John's mouth flattens into a pinched line. Yes, resignation. Sherlock refused to deduce more about John, not this time. He only wanted to take with him what he can truly see. He doesn't trust his deductions anymore, to be honest. Too many things have slipped past him for his comfort.

_Sentiment, Sherlock._ That sounded too much like Mycroft for Sherlock to deal with right now. Bad enough the bloody nosy git stood only feet away but he had to be in his head now, too?

"The game is never over, John. But, there may be some new players, now." Sherlock admits, nodding in deference to this fact. Not trivial. John should be aware of this, though. Just because Sherlock will be de...gone, doesn't mean John and Mary won't still have to watch their back.

Guilt by association. _Live with _that_ knowledge, Sherlock_.

Sherlock lifted his head, looking out, past John shoulder. What does he see across that black, empty tarmac? The end. So close. "That's ok. The East Wind takes us all in the end."

He didn't really think he had said it out loud until John asks,"What's that?" John's brow creases even further, doesn't understand the reference. Another bit of John to commit to memory. _Remember, Sherlock. Remember it all._

"It's a story my brother told me when we were kids. The East Wind is a terrifying force that lays waste to all in its path." _Had a taste of that already, haven't you, Sherlock?_ He sniffs deeply, as if scenting for the change in the air to come. "It seeks out the unworthy and plucks them from the earth."

It was coming for him soon. Too soon. Not enough time. Never enough time. Because if anyone were ever unworthy it is Sherlock Holmes.

Never worth enough for John.

_John._

Sherlock can't see his own face, but he knows what is written there. The sadness must be screaming from the depths of his eyes. It's what it feels like to him. The ache of loss is tearing him limb from limb. It is the salt to the already peeled flesh of his skin, burning its way into the soft meat beneath, eating away at it until there is nothing but bone. Cold and hard.. He's too tired to fight it and his only hope is that John is as oblivious as he always was and just doesn't _see. _

_Don't observe, John. I know it goes against everything I tried to instill in you, just please, this once, don't. Don't _see_ me._

"That was generally me." The truth of that statement is painful.

_Unworthy. Unworthy. Unworthy._

"Nice." Is John's retort, because that's John, isn't it? It may not have always been the best relationship between them, but John always _believed_ the best about Sherlock. Much to John's own detriment.

Sherlock shrugs it off. "He's a rubbish big brother."

That did it. That made John smile. He understood the Holmes brothers, that love/hate front they armored themselves with. Sherlock couldn't help but smile back, but he couldn't look at John.

"So what about you, then? Where are you actually going now?"

Ah. Here it was. Cue all the awards, Sherlock was going to sell it.

"Ooh, some undercover work in eastern Europe." Easy peasy with a non-chalant sigh. It _was_ just all so beneath him, wasn't it?

Sherlock raised his chin with haughtiness.

"For how long?"

"Six months, my brother estimates. He's never wrong." _Damn him. Damn it all!_

_John!_

Sherlock curls his lips in against his teeth, holding them closed, forcing them to remain quiet. _Don't say it, Sherlock. What good will it do _now_? Don't look at him. You'll be gone soon, you can hold it together until then. Let him have this. Do _this_ for him._

"And then what?" Oblivious. He doesn't know this is goodbye.

Sherlock chances to look at John. He believes Sherlock will be back to Baker Street. Maybe he even thinks he'll stop by between diaper changes and bottle feedings. Mary wouldn't mind John helping on the occasional case. It would be good for him. Give him that rush they all know he needs.

_It's all fine._

"Who knows." Did his voice just catch? Sherlock is a good actor, but there are limits even he can reach. He'll be on the plane soon. This will be over soon.

Too soon.

John nods, taking a steady deep breath as he looks away. Sherlock wants to read more into the moment, to the movement, the motivation behind it but he quickly quells any deductive reasoning that wants to push its way into the conversation.

_Maintain the status quo, Sherlock._

He's speaking before he even knows what he's saying. "John, there's something I should say," _No. _"I've meant to say always," _Don't._ John looks up at him, his mouth pinched into something indefinable. "And, I never have." _Jesus! Sherlock, what are you doing?_ "Since it's unlikely we'll ever meet again, I might as well say it now." _STOP IT! For God's sake, look at him! Look, Sherlock. If you do this...If you say _anything_ to him, what will that solve? What will that do? To him? You are _leaving_! Gone. You are _never_ coming back. To London. To Baker Street. To John. He is going to be here, living, working, raising a baby with a wife he loves...what good does telling him do? _

_Haven't you hurt him enough?_

Sherlock's eyes focus on John. His mind coming back online and he sees John, stoic, strong, perfect John and finally hears the words that were bouncing around inside his head. Listens until they finally made sense and his resolve reasserts itself. And, he knows what to do. He knows what he has to do, to have the one thing of John he can take with him.

"Sherlock is actually a girl's name."

And, there it was. John's smile. Radiant and incandescent. His huff of a giggle filling up all the empty spaces inside Sherlock. That smile, burned so brightly. His mind palace was ablaze, its walls razed and every stud and beam and floorboard remade from the purity that was John's smile.

The only thing good Sherlock had ever done in his life coalesced in that wide, smile-split face. It made his own mouth want to mirror the image. And, he thought, if he could manage to match that smile their mouths would fit so perfectly together...He wondered what that smile would taste like...

_Do _not_ go _there, _Sherlock Holmes. Never there. You will be lost._

"It's not," John offers with a smile-soaked shake of his head.

"It was worth a try." _Did you even try, though, Sherlock? _ So much time he wasted.

"We're not naming our daughter after you."

"Oh, I think it could work." He teases to make John laugh. If it's all he can have he will take it all.

They look at each other then, both sensing their time drawing to a close and Sherlock removes his glove, offering his hand to his best friend. An echo of that first handshake, on the sidewalk in front of 221B.

It's what people do, don't they? When they are meeting? Going away for a bit? Or, saying goodbye?

John considers the offer before slipping his own palm against Sherlock's.

"To the very best of times, John."

It had been. In spite of everything that they had endured, Sherlock knows that every moment he has spent in the presence of John Watson has been the best he has, or ever will know in his extremely limited future.

Years of crimes and tea and take-away. Arguments and laughs and crap telly. Quiet moments in their chairs by the fire. Body parts in the fridge. Complaints and adrenaline and the thrill of the chase pumping through their veins.

Sherlock has six months left to relive every moment.

So, if he holds onto John Watson's hand just a second longer than is appropriate and necessary, he is beyond caring. He relishes the warmth of that smaller hand in his. The rough texture of sure and deft fingers wrapped around his own. The handshake is a miniature version of the man it extends from. Firm. Solid. Capable in a strength that is cleverly disguised.

Sherlock squeezes minutely. A covert sign to his one and only best friend, that he knows John Watson and that he will never forget him.

With reluctance he prays to a god he certainly doesn't believe in that John doesn't notice and slips his hand away. Without a second thought, he turns from the man that means too much to him and enters the airplane.

No backward glance. No hint of reluctance.

A swift and clean break. It's all he can manage.

It was harder than jumping from the rooftop of a four story building.

More painful than a gunshot wound to the chest.


	2. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER TWO**

The trembling starts the moment he sits. His breathing is fast, too fast, hyperventilation is a definite possibility. _Control. Focus. Just-_

_Stop._

_So much for this caring lark._

He pulls a shuddering, deep breath through his nose, closing his eyes as his head sags against the soft leather of the seat-back. He is wrecked, barely holding on. He's been struggling to keep control since...since 'the fall', to be honest. _Pressure, too much pressure._ Forcing calm, he knows he well looks the part of a dying man he is soon to become as he notices the near silent approach of the flight attendant.

_Worried? _Yes. Wouldn't do to have their only passenger come unglued before even taxiing out.

Sherlock lifts his hand, still focused on breathing, as he shakes his head in near desperation, and the attendant takes the gesture for what it means and stays away.

_Worried. Yes. _But well versed in knowing when to leave a passenger be. A private jet must have its perks after all.

It isn't until he feels the plane begin to move that he eases the death-grip he had placed on the armrests. His eyes burn, the pressure behind them nearly unbearable from the tears that threaten to drown him. Giving into the grief is not something he will allow right now. Too many eyes (on Mycroft's payroll- _Damn them. Damn him.) _Mycroft's nose is buried far too deep into his business at it is. Sherlock will not give him the satisfaction of a report full of his brother's pitiful sentiment.

There will be plenty of long, lonely hours; cold, claustrophobic moments in the middle of the night that will allow Sherlock the privacy of his grief.

_At least there is _something_ to look forward to, Sherlock._

He blinks quickly, relieving some of the tension of unspent tears and looks out the window as the plane glides gently through the air. He only sees the bit of countryside that is visible beyond the security fence that surrounds the airfield. He had chosen to sit on this side of the window knowingly. He could not face the possibility of looking out and seeing John even once more.

Sherlock is proud in the fact he had left with his pride intact. Close call as it had been.

_Stupid. Stupid fool. _What had he been thinking? Nearly revealing all to John.

_John..._

But, no. He can't think about him now. There will be time...later.

He continues to concentrate on his breathing, centers and focuses his mind, thwarts the pain that threatens to engulf him.

Finally, he finds some semblance of control, he turns from the window when the flight attendant approaches, a phone in his hand. "Sir, it's your brother."

More than a bit surprised to hear from him so soon, and knowing, under the circumstances, it can't be good news, Sherlock braces himself, his voice calm and smooth, "Mycroft?"

"Hello, little brother, how's the exile going?" Smug bastard. He _would_ be a smartarse at the moment.

"I've only been gone four minutes." Sherlock sneers.

"Well, I certainly hope you have learned your lesson. As it turns out, you're needed."

"Oh, for God's sake make up your mind," Sherlock bites off through clenched teeth. Looking out the window again, he's certain to keep his 'untouchable facade' thoroughly in place. "Who needs me this time?"

"England." Mycroft issues resignedly.

Sherlock hides his surprise as he exits the plane. John and Mary stand with Mycroft, and it takes him only a second to read their faces. He feels his brow crease in consternation as he takes in the three very distinctly different visages:

John: excitement, battle-ready, relief?

Mary: confusion, mistrust, fear?

Mycroft: resolve, anxiety, determination?

Well, then. Whatever situation has offered Sherlock a stay of execution and allows him to be called back from exile is not a trifling matter.

"Well, what is it then?" Sherlock mocks, shoving his hands into the pockets of his Belstaf, his arrogant stride making short work of the distance from plane to car where the three stood waiting for him. "All of MI6 at your disposal, and you can't manage on your own for five minutes?"

"Sherlock," John warns, a smile ghosting his face at the throwback.

How long has it been since he has had to rein Sherlock in? _Too long._

Sherlock only offers a sideways glance in response, steps up to meet Mycroft, head on.

"Perhaps you should have a look, brother mine." Mycroft sweeps his hand to suggest Sherlock take a seat in the car.

Rolling his eyes, he folds himself into the leather of the rear seat of Mycroft's sedan and freezes.

"Did you miss me? Did you miss me? Did you miss me?" The tinny voice and repeating static image mock.

Sherlock hurls himself from the car, cold fingers of fear and dread run down his back in icy waves. He closes his eyes, the back of his hand to his mouth. He can't breathe. He can't.

"_Goodbye, John."_

_No. No._

_Not there. He will _not_ go there again, looking down over the ledge. _

"_Off you pop."_

"Sherlock!"

A breath is finally sucked in, he's back from the nightmare, John's pulling on his sleeve. He's not revisiting that past. _Never._

"Sherlock, are you all right?"

True concern fills John's voice, deepens every line on his face as he looks at Sherlock and _sees_ all that Sherlock desperately wants to hide.

Sherlock stutters, pulls in another quick breath, blinking rapidly to clear the remnants of choking fear. "Yes. Yes, I'm fine...Fine. Just, um...just surprised." He swallows thickly, turning from John. He can't look at him right now.

_He can't know._

"Yes," Mycroft volunteers. "Every broadcast, every screen in the country. We're looking into how it could possibly have been done..."

"But, it can't be him. I mean, he's dead, right?" John offers, his hope evident.

Sherlock frowns, that cold fear racing across his skin, keeping him silent.

Mycroft lifts a brow, reading Sherlock's every tell. He clears his throat. "True, but..."

"But, once you rule out the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth." Sherlock quietly retorts under his breath.

He can feel everyone's eyes on him, but he doesn't care. He's locked down, shutting himself off, giving in to the cold hard reason that will have to sustain him.

"Yes, well, be that as it may," Mycroft counters, "Lady Smallwood and the Prime Minister are waiting for us, Sherlock." He turns and takes his seat in the car, the command that Sherlock follows, unspoken and completely taken for granted.

John steps forward as Sherlock moves toward the car. "Do you...I can help." He clears his throat, "I want to help."

Sherlock's heart clenches, to hear John so hopeful. The wish for things to be as they used to be evident in the tight line of his body.

A small smile forms at the corner of Sherlock's mouth, and John mirrors in kind. The tension is wound too tight between them, Sherlock can't imagine looking at Mary in this moment.

"Yes, John. Of course." Sherlock looks to the car, can see Mycroft eying him as he speaks on the phone. "I'll text you when the powers that be have released me."

John laughs lightly. "Just so."

Sherlock nods, and makes to get in the car, when John's arm on his sleeve _again_, stops him.

"Welcome back."


	3. Chapter 3

The moment he's in the car, Sherlock turns the television off in an urgent rush. Hearing that voice, the Irish burr he once found almost seductive (against all better judgments) on an endlessly taunting loop, along with the sight of that poorly manipulated image of a face he had last seen in one of his darkest hours- it's just too much for him to take.

_Too much. Too much. Too much. _

Dread, heavy and dark, hovers at the fringes of Sherlock's mind. Shadows crowd the deepest corners of his mind palace and he shudders as the flash of images and memories flood his thoughts, threatening to choke him with the fear he's barely been able to contain since that day on the roof of St. Bart's.

The vibration of his phone in his coat pocket has been little more than a distraction since he arrived back on the ground. He has no desire to reach for it, and isn't that odd? He's rarely seen without the device in his hand, fingers flying across the screen with lightning speed, easily keeping up with his racing thoughts as he was kept abreast of a myriad of incoming information. Now? Can't be bothered. He doesn't even want to think about pulling it out. Doesn't want to think about who knows what about Moriarty, what he's going to do if the madman is back, who can share information for the right price.

Why must it be up to him? Is the plaguing thought foremost in his mind. Hell, he's dispatched the man once already, given up his life once in the name of justice and the right thing.

_Let them hang!_

He's just so tired. He's been tired for years now.

His fists clench against the leather seat beneath him and he's only noticed he's given into the weariness- his head has dropped against the window, his eyes closed- when he hears Mycroft's voice.

"I'm sorry?" Sherlock manages, shifting his now open eyes towards his brother.

Mycroft looks at him, the surprise at Sherlock's tired posture evident and plainly written on his face. He narrows his eyes with focus on the younger Holmes, leaving Sherlock at a loss as to how to recover quickly enough to stop him from deducing everything. "Brother, I know..."

"You don't know _anything, _Mycroft." Sherlock harshly rejoins, turning back to the window, refusing Mycroft one more second of scrutiny.

Undaunted, he tries again. "I understand..."

Sherlock laughs bitterly. "_You _understand? Moriarty blew his brains out on that rooftop, Mycroft. _Please, _do _explain_ to me how his _fucking face_ is plastered on every screen in the bloody Commonwealth!"

Mycroft's mouth pinches in distaste at Sherlock's unusual use of such coarse language. "Yes, well," He succeeds in not squirming in discomfort at least, Sherlock will give him that, but it's almost laughable how his sudden outburst has so flummoxed his big brother. "That is the question you have been brought back from the brink to answer, and not at all to what I was referencing." His sudden pause is telling and Sherlock braces himself for the inevitable. "I was clearly referring to your doctor."

Sherlock growls, his hands flying to his hair and pulls relentlessly in frustration. "He's not _my_ anything, Mycroft, so do shut up." His hands fall to his sides as he breathes deeply, calmly, eyes closed. "Take me straight to Baker Street."

"Sherlock, I can't just allow-"

Sherlock wheels on his brother, looms over him in the backseat, a menace and not about to be denied. His voice is low and dangerous. "Don't tell me you can't, because I know you _can._ You tell the bloody Queen what corset to wear, so do not patronize me with the ridiculous delusion that you do not control this entire continent!" He closes his eyes, breathes deeply, tries to command control of his mind that is rapidly sliding off the rails.

_Control. Focus, Sherlock!_

"I still have the secure laptop from my time...away." It's still too hard to talk about that, and fortunately, Mycroft hasn't tried to delve any deeper since his 'wading in'. "Send me everything you have on that. It's not going to help me get to the bottom of any of this any faster if I have to sit and listen to the Ministers whinge all night. Take _care _of it, Mycroft. It's what you do, isn't it?"

Mycroft's eyes take only a moment in their assessment of Sherlock before he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his phone with a sigh of resignation.

Finally satisfied that his brother is managing his demand, Sherlock's head rests once more against the window and he closes his eyes, halting any further attempts of persuasion. They remain shut, though he does not sleep (_can't_), drawn into himself and silent until they reach central London.

Sherlock barely manages the outer door to 221B, when Mrs. Hudson is there, standing at the foot of the stairs, hands fisting nervously in the hem of her apron. Surprise is the least that shows on her face.

"Sherlock, what is going on? I thought you were to be off on a case, but then this Moriarty person shows up on the telly. I just don't understand what is happening."

Frustrated, too out of sorts to suit himself, no matter the tender feelings he holds for this woman, Sherlock isn't in the mood, nor in the right frame of mind to deal with his landlady. He sighs heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose, struggling to maintain the last bit of civility he has remaining and knowing it won't do to lose his temper now. He needs to appear calm, to keep it all together to get to what he needs. What he _has _to do.

_Really, Sherlock?_

"Yes, it's all a bit of a mess at the moment, Mrs. Hudson." He does his best not to sound too condescending as he ignores the familiar voice that's now decided to speak up. "It's going to be a difficult case to sort out. Perhaps," He takes a deep breath, finally facing her worried expression. "Perhaps it would be best for you to head to your sister's for a bit."

_That'll make things loads easier, won't it?_

Her mouth forms a silent 'o'. "It's that bad, then?"

Good question, and one he's not anxious to deal with.

_Deal with? Like you're going to be in a shape to deal with anything._

"We just don't know." He answers honestly, managing not to growl at the snarking voice in his head.

Luckily, it takes him only another few minutes to appease her worry and concern, convincing her to leave immediately for her sister's. _If_ Moriarty is back _(Jesus. No.)_ then it only makes sense to get her as far away as possible.

_Can't have witnesses now, can we?_

Biting his tongue, he reassures her that he's fine, will remain fine- No encore suicide jumps this time, thanks much- before he is able to make his way upstairs.

Entering, his chest feels tight, his breathing hampered by the weight of too many things.

Fear. Guilt. Grief.

The flat has been a void since his return. Not the home it had once been- to detective and blogger- their refuge from a world they worked side by side to make a little better; a little safer. It was always filled with sound and movement and energy and warmth. Filled to the rafters with the soul of those two men.

In contrast, it was now a place of oppressive emptiness that Sherlock found hideous and disrespectful to the memories that lingered.

Sherlock feels like a stranger in his own home as he looks around, the flat now a dichotomy to the tumult in his brain. Silent, empty, and tidy- Mrs. Hudson had been busy since his incarceration- it lies in direct contrast to the cacophony of racing thoughts and living nightmares Sherlock is _attempting_ to keep under lock and key.

_Too much. Too much. Too much._

_Moriarty._

Why was this happening again? Would it never be finished? Given up and lost everything that had ever mattered to him, Sherlock's mind now dwells on only one possibility. His exile was to his ultimate demise. Six months. That had been his punishment.

_No._ His punishment- his self-imposed punishment- had really been an ongoing saga since his return from the dead. Letting John go, seeing him married, gone from Baker Street, becoming a father; exile to certain death was nothing compared to that.

Still it's not enough!

Only one thing left; his only recourse. And, it's a decision that comes frighteningly easy to the weary detective.

If he stops being _Sherlock Holmes_, then why will Moriarty bother? Why would anyone bother?

_Not a hero now. Just a murderer. Ordinary Sherlock._

Ceasing to _be, _there is no point in targeting anyone connected to Sherlock. If he is no longer the world's only consulting detective, his magic is gone. What would be the appeal?

_Ordinary Sherlock._

No reason to hurt the people he loves and cares about. His friends, London, the whole world would be safe if there was _no _Sherlock Holmes.

Cease to exist. Evaporate. Extinguish the light that is Sherlock and the Moriarty's, the Magnussen's of the world win while no one suffers or dies because of him.

His mobile has continued it's ongoing vibration in his pocket during both the trip to the flat and his agonizing homecoming. He pulls it out on reflex, noting the more than a dozen texts and nearly as many missed calls in the interim.

Scrolling mindlessly, he notes the usual suspects. Lestrade has left a couple, full of invectives, raging against 'fucking Moriarty', that Mycroft's been in touch and he's now heading a special task force (Sherlock smirks, wishing him silent luck in finding anyone in that cess pool of ignorance capable of finding the loo roll, let alone a criminal mastermind that none of them believed existed outside of Sherlock's twisted and sick imagination less than a handful of years ago).

Molly (whom he resisted in meeting to say goodbye, the sting of a ringless slap still fresh in his memory, and not bearing repeating) is lovely in her readiness to do his bidding once more to thwart a ruthless Jim.

Fearless, that one was proving to be.

There is even a text from Anderson, which makes Sherlock smile in spite of himself. It's full of more of his outlandish theories. Laughable but touching, if he thinks about it. Which he doesn't.

He answers none of them.

_What's the point?_

But, then he's surprised, amongst those and a few random others, there are three from John. Sent in the time since they parted at the air park. They are supportive, but his impatience is evident. He's clearly fearful of being left out of the loop once again, his lack of trust painful, but warranted.

_Oh, John._

The phone nearly drops from his hand as it vibrates, the surprise bringing him back to the present. It's John. Again.

It's simple and so completely his old friend, Sherlock can't breathe. How can two words cause such pain and loneliness.

_[6:56 PM]_

_All right? -JW_

Sherlock's thumb hovers over the screen, as if he could feel the words written there. Touch just that part of John, but stop short. Too much. Even that would be too much.

_[7:17 PM]_

_No. -SH_

...delete...

_[7:18 PM]_

_Fine. Debriefing with Mycroft. Will be in touch. -SH_

Vague enough to be true, (_Only lies have details)_ that it should buy him enough time from John's good intentions long enough to accomplish his ultimate goal.

Disgust with himself is not enough to divert his intentions, so he tosses the mobile onto the sofa as if it has offended him and hangs his coat on the door.

_Just another day in 221B._

He's quickly through the kitchen and into his bedroom, reaching onto the top shelf of his closet for the laptop Mycroft had him use during his 'time away'. Quickly set aside (that isn't what he's after now), it's given him enough room to pull out a well-used backpack. The pack that had carried his entire life after his death.

His time away from Baker Street and...John.

_Damn, Moriarty!_ He curses, rummaging impatiently through the contents of the bag. His breath catches as his hand pulls out a well-worn piece of paper. He looks at it thoughtfully, allows only a second for his mind to focus on the image that was his salvation, cherishes the bloom of warmth in his chest that the mere thought the image induces, before it's dashed with the cold wash of reality. Sherlock's reality.

A silent flat. An empty heart.

_Alone. Alone is what protects me._

He wads the paper in frustration, tosses it aside on the bed with an irritated growl.

That route, those kinds of thoughts, only lead to pain, and Sherlock's had enough of that to last a lifetime. There is no room for sentimentality, for _caring_, not when there was the dragon to bring oblivion...


	4. Chapter 4

"You know that won't make it ring."

He notices the phone in his hand. The one he's checking for the millionth time. "It won't ring. He doesn't _ring..."_

"Well, chirp. Ding. Whatever it is that your text message alert is set for his nibs."

John notices the hint of annoyance in Mary's voice, using her favorite descriptor for Sherlock, but he refuses to acknowledge it. He would laugh if it was at all funny, which it isn't. Ironic, yes. But, definitely not funny as Mary should realize she's the _last_ person with any right to be annoyed with anything Sherlock might say or do since...Since John learned the truth and Sherlock had come, surprisingly, to her defense.

John still can't wrap his mind around _that_ one. Who would have ever thought Sherlock Holmes had a forgiving nature?

He sets his phone down on the counter beside the bathroom sink, fighting the ever mounting wave of bitterness that now seeps into every aspect of his life. It's not something he's proud of, and definitely not something he lets known, to _anyone_, but it's there none the less. The revelations from that night in Baker Street amongst the three of them hang low, rivaling the English clouds- the grey of his everyday.

He performs his normal Monday morning routine on a day that feels anything but normal, not at all certain he's ever known what that word means. His normal has been a mixture of warfare and gunfire, acute pain and dire isolation, mad genius and frenzied pace, indescribable loss and heartbreaking grief.

But, all of this he refuses to acknowledge, not only to himself but especially to his wife, and that is something he never thought would be a possibility in his marriage. Not sharing everything with his wife? It's unfathomable, but just another facet of his life that he shoves down and pops a cork in.

_Keep calm and carry on_, after all.

Mary sits, propped in bed, cup of ginger tea in her hand. She doesn't still suffer from full-on morning sickness (now in her seventh, nearly eighth, month of pregnancy), but as a precaution, starts her mornings in just this way, while watching every move John makes.

He doesn't shudder at the thought. At all.

"Just thought I would have heard something by now." He offers in conversation, smearing shaving foam across his face. He doesn't think about the last time he had shaved with Sherlock so much at the forefront of his mind. "I mean, not even a word from Mycroft." He adds, showing Mary it isn't that he wants to hear from Sherlock, per se, just his genuine interest in the case.

Mary offers a non-committal hum as she sips.

"It _is_ all that anyone is talking about. Moriarty, I mean." Is his response. And, it is true. It had been nothing but non-stop coverage for the last three days: 'The Criminal Mastermind vs. The Reichenbach Hero, v2.0'.

Sherlock's face on every front page of the papers and on every channel of the telly was hard for John to take, not knowing what was going on. Not hearing from the detective was maddening.

He hears the quiet thunk as she sets her cup to the side. "Yes, of course. What do you think it could mean? Moriarty._ Is_ he alive?" It's not suspicious that she _keeps_ asking John, of all people, that question. Not in the least.

No suspicions to be had here.

John leans on his hands, watches the white cloud of shaving foam as it mixes with the running water, diluting on it's swirling descent down the drain. His head hangs between his shoulders, feels too heavy on his neck, the worry and constant strain of making nice like his own drain, pulling him down.

"I guess it _is_ possible though, isn't it? Sherlock came back from the dead, after all. They certainly are two peas..."

John slams his razor against the edge of the sink, not quick enough to keep his cork from slipping. "No. Sherlock is _nothing _like that psychopath." His voice is low and brooks no argument, but he immediately regrets it. Regrets so much. "Sorry. Just ignore me." He offers quickly, per his usual. Making nice now his forte.

It's a fine line that he walks, has always walked with Mary. Since the beginning with her, he's been able to minimize the, at one time, uncontrollable flashes of anger or frustration that seemed to be his hallmark. But, lately...

True to form, she makes no apology and the deep, sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach seems to grow.

"You'll see him today?" He knew it was more statement than the thinly veiled question she posed it as.

And, there it was. The little nagging doubt that he couldn't tamp down since the shooting. Was it concern for their shared friend that prompted her to add a little hope that John would seek Sherlock out? Or was it the calculating assassin with questionable intent ready to exploit John's friend and friendship to gain information? Was this wife and mother-to-be Mary or brutal, cold-blooded killer Mary? How was he ever to know the difference?

"If I haven't heard from him by the time I'm finished, I may stop by."

He finishes shaving and takes a few deep breaths, reaching for his shirt and doing up the buttons as he leaves the bathroom. Mary doesn't say anything else, just looks at him with that stony expression he has only recently realized existed.

_Yeah. Bit not good._

Stifling the urge to shiver, he perfunctorily leans in to kiss her cheek. "Short shift today, should be home early afternoon. Call me if you need anything."

He doesn't wait for her to answer him back. Coat on, keys and kit in hand, he's quickly out the door.

What does it say when a still-technically newlywed and first-time, father-to-be is so anxious to be leaving the presence of his wife?

Unwilling to answer his own questioning mind, his phone is out before he starts the car and his disappointment is tinged with worry when he sees there's still nothing.

_[7:09 AM]_

_A response anytime would be lovely, ta. Will drop by at lunch. Chinese? -JW_

"Good morning, Dr. Watson. Did you have a nice weekend?"

John smiles warmly at the new nurse, Kelly, they had hired to fill in for Mary's now shorter hours and eventual maternity leave. Luckily, she was proving to be very competent and had an aura of warmth that put the patients at ease.

"Quiet, but nice, thanks. And how was yours?" John finds his patient files for the day, noting it didn't seem to be looking to be too stressful.

"The usual, loads of laundry and watching telly. The exciting life of a single girl, you know."

John laughs, thinking his own weekend sadly mirrored hers. "As exciting as this married one." He offers with a wink.

"Good to know I have something to look forward to, then, aye?" She smiles and John nods in complete agreement. "I thought maybe you'd had a birthday or something."

John's brow furrows, trying to think of what might have given her that indication. "No. Nothing on this weekend. Just revving up for the arrival of the little one." The thought gives him a warm, pleasant fluttering in his chest.

"Ah," She nods in realization. "That must be it then."

"What must be?"

"The box in your office. Was dropped off a few days ago. I probably should have brought it round..."

"No worries. I'm sure it's nothing urgent, otherwise I'm sure they would have had it delivered to the house." He reassures her easily. "I'm gonna grab a cuppa. Give me a few minutes before you send the first one back?"

"Of course, Dr. Watson."

John does find a rather large box on his desk when he makes it to his office. It's long, wrapped in plain brown paper and on the front, printed in black in neat block letters is his name:

_DR. JOHN H. WATSON_

He sits his files and freshly made tea to the side and focuses on the package. It doesn't scream baby gift, but then, he's not an expert quite yet. As he reaches to tear the utilitarian paper, he has a moment's hesitation. Kelly said it had been here for a few days and he can't help but think about Moriarty.

He swallows hard and leans his ear down to the box. Silence. Rolling his eyes at himself, he nearly laughs, thinking how glad he is that Sherlock wasn't there to see him listening for a ticking mail bomb.

Deciding there's nothing for it but to just open it, he rips the paper off, to reveal the non-descript cardboard box underneath. He quickly finds a pair of bandage scissors, slitting the tape open with ease. White tissue paper hides the contents but there's a note on top. An off-white fold of card stock. John opens it and is gutted.

_Perhaps your little one won't be a complete idiot. -SH_

John almost laughs at the backhanded compliment granted in true Sherlockian form. But, the humor is overshadowed by the knowledge that John knows what is in the box before his trembling fingers pull back the tissue. An object so familiar to him, that brings back so many bittersweet memories. The scent of rosin reaches his nose as he looks down at Sherlock's most prized possession:

His violin.

"Jesus," John breathes out, nearly a sob, his mind racing, reeling with unwanted realization as he tenderly removes the bow and case. He can't believe his eyes, clouded with threatening tears, tenderly opening the case, his breath catches on something deep- unbidden- in his chest when he sees the precious instrument. His fingers skim the gleaming surface, the sleek lines of it's perfection wavering through the tears that fall unchecked in anguished horror in comprehension of Sherlock's meaning with such a gesture.

He wasn't coming back. Ever.

His exile was to have been permanent, not the six month assignment he had informed John of during that stilted goodbye. God, how awful that had been. And, how _unfinished_ everything had seemed between them.

Because it had been. _Fucking hell!_ Sherlock had _known_ it was the last time they would see each other; had even said as much. And, what had John done? Ignored the obvious, been guilty one last time of _seeing but not observing_. The one time it had mattered most!

_Idiot!_

And, now, the _one thing _Sherlock had treasured above all else in this world, is a gift for his daughter.

The meaning behind this endowment is too appalling to recognize, and John easily shuts it down with a sniff as he wipes his eyes with the heels of his shaking hands, closes the case and places it back in the box. He struggles for control, for the short leash which he holds his feelings and emotions in check. He stands for a moment, fists clenched at his sides, head bowed, taking slow deep breaths- ordering himself. Shoving that cork down ever tighter, he makes excuses to Kelly he doesn't even know or care to make sense and leaves the clinic, the box clutched tightly under his arm.

He doesn't know what he is going to say, he just knows that he has to get to Sherlock, to _see him_. Nothing will be _right_ until John can be in Sherlock's presence once again, and there is nothing in this world that could make John Watson deduce anything about that fact.


	5. Chapter 5

John is greeted with silence as he enters Baker Street. Not unusual. Mrs. Hudson has probably popped out to the shops or is sipping tea next door with Mrs. Turner since there are no sounds of bad telly or a golden oldies radio station drifting into the entryway from 221A, nor does she peek out her door to see who's walked in. No one, coming or going, ever gets by Mrs. Hudson.

Less worrisome is the lack of noise from upstairs. Their very first meeting, Sherlock had warned John that he might not talk for days, and, although Sherlock was normally a whirlwind of kinetic energy, there were those moments when, in one of his moods, he could be still to the point of alarm. In his 'thinking pose', wandering his mind palace, Sherlock could lie motionless for hours on end. Early on in their association, those times had given John a turn, sending the worried doctor to more than once take one thin, pale wrist in his hand, checking for a pulse. Sherlock would scoff in indignation, pulling his hand away but with the slightest smirk on his face, as if scaring John were a bonus.

So, John takes the stairs two at a time, not hesitating at the closed door, hoping to find the mad genius of a consulting detective, supine on the sofa, deep in thought, waiting for John to check he's alive, when, regretfully, all he's greeted with is a dark, surprisingly clean 221B.

There are no lights on, and with the curtains closed it's eerily reminiscent of John's last visit to the flat before Sherlock's miraculous return from the dead. The scent of furniture polish permeates the room and John almost laughs at how incongruent that smell is to the memory of his former home.

Whereas, Sherlock could be still and silent as death, one thing he was _not_ capable of, in any capacity whatsoever, was maintaining an orderly home. If Sherlock had been there at any time, working the case, the flat would have been in shambles. Nothing but carnage lying in the wake of Typhoon Sherlock Holmes.

The cleanliness is foreboding.

The moment he walks in, everything seems _off_: Sherlock's computer sits closed on the coffee table, there's no ridiculous assortment of empty tea cups lying around, no papers or books scattered along every available surface. The kitchen is spotless, the refrigerator _empty_. Not a body part or mould culture to be found. There are no experiments on the kitchen table, no strange smells emanating from the cupboards.

It's all wrong and it terrifies John. Has Sherlock even been there since he left the air park? Cold dread rakes it's fingers down the back of John's neck as he sets the box containing Sherlock's violin on the clean kitchen table and pulls out his mobile. Worried frustration pushes him, although he knows it's fruitless to send the message since Sherlock hasn't deemed to answer the countless others he's sent over the weekend, but the just the act of hitting 'send' makes him feel better. Less helpless.

_[9:23 AM]_

_I'm at the flat. _

_WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU?! -JW_

John swallows thickly, reminding himself that this is _not_ like before. Sherlock wouldn't do this again- leave John wondering, questioning. No. Definitely not.

Any moment now, Sherlock will come barreling into the flat or John's mobile will buzz with a smartarse response. Yes, any moment.

In the mean time, there's nothing for it but for John to shed his Dr. Watson persona and slip back into his role as chief associate to consulting detective. He wasn't the brightest, as Sherlock was fond of reminding him, but he wasn't completely dull either. There has to be _something _in this flat; a clue, a message, a bloody hint of wherever Sherlock could be and what he might be up to.

John just has to find it.

_Right. Good then._

Sherlock's room.

John's never been comfortable in the room. He's always felt as if it were too personal, too intimate to be in it for any length of time, and now it feels ten times worse. It smells of Sherlock, even over the cloying scent of floor polish and kitchen bleach. The warm hint of Sherlock's after shave; spicy, with notes of nutmeg and ginger. (Well, John thinks it might be after shave, could just be pure Sherlock essence for all he knows). He always smelled of Autumn, even in the heat of summer. Comforting. The thought fosters a bloom of warmth deep in John's belly that is as familiar as it is unsettling. He ignores the sensation in favor of focusing on trying to find the man and not wasting his time on how the arrogant git smells.

His room was the one place out of the entire flat Sherlock always managed to keep in some semblance of order, but the way John finds it now is not in it's usual state of tidiness. It is spotless. Everything gleams- dusted, polished, wiped. All the books in their cases; not a drawer left half-closed.

It is unsettling in a very un-Sherlockian way, and adds another tick in the not-quite-right scenario of the entire flat.

The only thing seeming out of order is the bed. Oh, it's made to within an inch of it's life, no doubt about that, but the smooth expanse of duvet is broken by the clear impression left behind from someone sitting on the edge of the mattress. And, in the middle of the otherwise pristine bedding sets a piece of luggage unfamiliar to John.

Subconsciously mindful not to disturb where Sherlock may have last sat, _sentiment, _John sits to the other side of the bag, and reaches for the brown leather backpack that looks as if it's seen better days. A piece of paper falls to the floor when he moves it closer and John is shocked as he unfurls it after picking it up.

It's a photograph of himself. He recognizes it instantly, a photo-copy of one of the random paparazzi pics of John leaving 221B during Moriarty's trial that had been posted in the papers. John smooths the worn image across his thigh, easing the wrinkles carefully as he draws his hands across the fading photo.

_What in the world is Sherlock doing with this photo?_

His mind blanks, easily shutting down an urge to entertain any meaning of sentiment behind the presence of the picture in Sherlock's possession.

_No time. No reason. Not now._

He sets the photo aside- along with his lingering questions for now- and focuses on the contents of the bag.

There's a small fortune in random international currency: rupees from India, Japanese yen, dollars, pesos, Russian rubles, others he isn't familiar with and wouldn't attempt to pronounce or begin to know what country they belong to. There are several small notebooks, stuffed with bits of ephemera: receipts, ripped newspaper articles, railway ticket stubs. The pages are filled with Sherlock's familiar scrawl, but none of it makes sense. It's written in different languages and the bits he can make out must be written in code. There are a handful of passports with IDs of Sherlock in various disguises, some of them frankly ridiculous enough to laugh over except when he notices the names associated with a few of them. He freezes, his breath caught in his throat as his mind stutters once again with information it refuses to compute-

_-Hamish J. Holmes_

_-Scott Watson_

_-John S. Scott_

There are others, of course, the names more regionally specific, but John is stuck on those three. It's obvious that this bag is a remnant of Sherlock's time after the fall; something he had with him during those two years that John knows nothing about. It's a shock when he realizes they never did speak about or discuss it in any meaningful way, Sherlock's 'death', the reasons behind it- _Moriarty had to be stopped- _or what Sherlock was doing during those two years. It's absurd that John remains clueless as to the why's and the how's and it infuriates him even though he has to admit that it is mainly his own fault.

After the initial shock of Sherlock's unexpected return, it was just easier to push it all aside. It was over and done with, there was nothing that could be done to change the time they had spent apart, so why dwell on it?

John had been sincere in his forgiveness during their fucked-up rendezvous with the bomb, though, for John, there is a difference between forgiving and forgetting. Sherlock had given him the miracle he so longed for- returning from the dead. Alive. Breathing. But, the two years of mourning for his best and only friend had taken a toll. Sherlock's fall had changed everything; had changed John in an irrevocable way.

_Trust issues._ The thought is laughable. There isn't a term strong enough to describe the _issues_ John Watson harbors in the dark recesses of his psyche, fostered and only made worse by watching his best friend hurl himself off the roof of a building.

It doesn't bear thinking on, so he doesn't.

John needs Sherlock's truth now; answers to the reasons behind, not only his 'death' but the fascination Moriarty held for Sherlock to begin with. John thinks he understands the mechanics of the situation- _how he faked it-_ and thought he had an inkling of what it had all been for- _Moriarty had to be stopped-_ the reason Sherlock hadn't included him in the scheme- _Afraid you'd let the cat out of the bag. _None of that makes it hurt any less, unfortunately.

Since, Sherlock's return though, John couldn't help but resent the fact that he _wasn't_ included; that Sherlock hadn't taken him with him, on whatever adventure he'd been on for those two years.

But, seeing those names, John realizes he should have pushed Sherlock for answers because, right now? Those amalgamations of both their names only induce more questions and it makes John feel that maybe, in some small way, he _had _been with Sherlock...

The only part Sherlock could have safely taken with him...

John's name?

_Jesus._ Why hadn't they talked about those two years?

John takes in a long, slow deep breath, promising himself, the moment he finds Sherlock, they are going to have a very _long_ conversation.

Feeling better having made that pact with himself, he reaches in the bag to pull out more random items; an empty box of nicotine patches. a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles, a half empty pack of cigarettes (which causes John's brow to twitch in distaste). Next was a small digital voice recorder, and John thinks to hell with invasion of privacy as he automatically presses play and immediately feels regret as the hair on his arms rise when the eerily familiar tune of _Stayin' Alive,_ tinny and faint, grows louder from the recorder.

Then there is the voice, one that he hears whispering, taunting in the darkest of nights. A voice he can never forget, that Irish brogue forever imbued with the hint of chlorine and the weight of symtex.

"_Well, here we are at last, you and me, Sherlock, and our problem. Final problem."_

John doesn't know what he'shearing. Doesn't understand what this recording undoubtedly means and where it comes from, not yet. It can't be. Those moments, those aching, hateful minutes...it doesn't compute.

Why would Sherlock record that? And, why in God's name would he still have it with him, all this time?

"_Stayin' alive, so boring, isn't it? It's just...staying. All my life I've been searching for a distraction, and you were the best distraction, and now, I don't even have you because I've beaten you. And, you know what? In the end it was easy. It was easy. Now I've got to go back to playing with the ordinary people, and it turns out, you're ordinary, just like all of them. Oh, well."_

John is frozen in place as the maniac continues his taunting of Sherlock as the questions and significance of what is on that tiny, little device only multiply when he pulls the last item from Sherlock's bag: John's own jumper, his favorite, the oatmeal cable-knit that he had thought lost when he fled Baker Street in his grief.

It's like a blow, low, to his gut, making him curve and bend over the wad of material, pressing it to the non-existent wound now in his stomach. It's John's jumper, but it smells of Sherlock, and his world tilts once again.

The tape continues to play, Sherlock's voice now joining the conversation.

It's wrong. It's all wrong. To hear those two, together, in this room. In this flat. In Baker Street.

_Wrong. Wrong. Wrong._

John is wrecked as he listens as they calmly discuss Sherlock's downfall, Moriarty gloating and gleeful over having duped everyone into believing Sherlock a fraud. His blood runs cold, his guts twist in remembered agony and sympathy for his best friend, knowing, remembering the torment of that failure so easily read in Sherlock's face.

Nothing up to this point, listening to this madman's ravings are as painful as the words he now hears. Dawning suspicion and utter horror descends upon him, his blood freezes in his veins:

"_...Your friends will die if you don't."_

"_John?"_

"_Not just John. Everyone."_

"_Mrs. Hudson?"_

"_Everyone."_

"_Lestrade?"_

"_Three bullets. Three gunmen. Three victims. There's no stopping them now unless my people see you jump. You can have me arrested. You can torture me, you can do anything you like with me, but nothing's going to prevent them from pulling the trigger. Your only three friends in the world will die, unless..."_

"_Unless, I kill myself. Complete your story."_

John shuts the recorder off with trembling, fumbling fingers, finding the right button on the damnable thing nearly impossible through the thick veil of tears that threaten to pour from his eyes. He can't breathe, his entire world shifting, thoughts and memories rearranged, reorganized in a split second's agony. Moments re-visualized; clarity on so many questions; 'almost' and 'what if' moments painfully clear for what they really were and honestly meant.

John's fist clenches and releases, still reeling from the onslaught of fresh insight, he has his mobile out, pulling up an all-too-familiar number as he shoves the recorder into his pocket. There is more to hear on it, John is certain, but he knows how it ends and he's not keen to relive any moment of that. Ever.

"John," the posh, smooth voice croons over the line. "What an unexpected sur-"

"Where is your brother?" John growls, stopping the inane platitudes.

"I can assure you, I have no idea."

"Stuff it, Mycroft. You practically have a low-jack shoved up Sherlock's arse. Where. Is. He?"

John can hear the man moving around on the other end of the line, shifting uncomfortably in his seat perhaps at John's crude manner.

"Contrary to popular belief, I am not my brother's keeper. Have you, perhaps, tried calling him?"

John wants to pull his hair out in frustration. "Yes, you are, and I've been texting him for days. I'm at the flat now," John states, the inanity of having to explain himself to Mycroft is beyond unreasonable at the moment. "There's no sign of him. The flat is _clean, _Mycroft. He hasn't been here." John stops in the middle of the sitting room, looking around once more for any give away to Sherlock's whereabouts.

"_You_ haven't heard from him? He hasn't contacted you to help with this Moriarty crisis?"

"No. Not a word. Not since we were all at the..._Shit_."

"What, John? What is it?"

John's heart sinks. "His coat, Mycroft. His _coat_ is still here." John just noticed it, hanging on the back of the door, and seeing it terrifies John in a way he's not certain he can describe. He takes it down, clutching it tightly to his chest, the weight of it reassuring in an absurd way.

Mycroft clears his throat and John knows the observant bastard can intuit every thought racing through John's brain, but he doesn't care. Not anymore.

"I'm sure there is nothing to worry about. He's fine-"

"Fine? _Fine?_ Do you remember the _last_ time he was involved with Moriarty?" John seethes as he remembers all too well. "Oh, wait. That's right. You were in on it, too. How could I forget?"

"John." Mycroft comes close to pleading, and John nearly laughs until he sees, on the sofa-

"_Jesus._" His voice breaks. "He doesn't have his phone, Mycroft." Because the slick black contraption that is _always_ within Sherlock's reach is lying on the sofa, battery dead and useless.

There's a quick inhalation easily heard over the phone and more muffled sounds of movement. "I'm out of the country, John, but I can assure you, all that can be done to find my brother will be done." His sigh is deep and pained- full of brotherly concern.

John doesn't want promises, he just wants Sherlock found. Now. He plugs Sherlock's phone in, powering it up, his head pounding with worry and fear as it nearly vibrates off the table with the onslaught of incoming messages and texts.

"Nothing can happen to him, Mycroft. Not again." John's voice is a harsh rasp, his throat too tight with fear. "Find him."

"I'll be in touch." Mycroft answers coolly, obviously uncomfortable with John's naked emotion.

John barely registers that the call has ended as he weeds through all of the texts on Sherlock's phone, hoping to glean some insight into just what the fuck is going on.

It seems endless, until finally, John comes to the last one to which Sherlock had sent, though it's not as reassuring as he had hoped, both for _when_ it was sent and the content. The cryptic message was to Billy Wiggins of all people on the last night John had seen Sherlock. _Days_ ago.

_[8:37 PM]_

_Third location. Labyrinth and solitaire. ETA 9:45 -SH_

_[8:38 PM]_

_Confirmed._

What was this? Lines from a bloody Bond film? Exasperated and fueled by an overwhelming sense of urgency, John dialed up the number stored for Wiggins in the phone.

"Mr. Holmes?" His surprise was apparent when he answers. Sherlock _never_ phones anyone.

"No, this is Dr. Watson, and I want you to listen to me very carefully. Do you remember the _last_ time you didn't listen to me, Billy?" Captain Watson has clearly taken command as John vividly remembers his first run-in with the man on the other end of the phone.

"Dr. Watson. Yes. Yes, sir." Hard to forget a nearly broken arm.

"Good, that's good. Now, Billy, it seems you were the last person to hear from Sherlock, days ago, and it appears you met with him at some point that night. You are going to take me there, is that understood?"

"Yes, sir, Dr. Watson." The boy had learned his lesson. Good to know.

"Text me the address and I will meet you there." John's tone left no room for argument as he ended the call though he had little reason to believe the boy had it in him to do so, especially when Sherlock's phone immediately buzzed with an incoming text.

John took a moment to breathe. Christ, everything was such a mess. He felt bombarded with all this new information, new fears, new...feelings. Total sensory overload with no end in sight. It was _paramount_ that he find Sherlock and he was determined to do it.

There was so much that John didn't understand, and no one else that could possibly make sense of it.


	6. Chapter 6

Navigating London traffic was never an easy thing. A city of it's size, it's hard to find a moment when the streets aren't clogged with travelers on always too-narrow thoroughfares. Drivers must be constantly on the alert for pedestrians crossing against the light; mad cabbies abruptly swerving to a curb for a hapless fare; delivery lorries, their drivers just as fed-up with navigating traffic, ignoring all traffic laws and blaring car horns to park where they may for a pick-up or drop-off. It's this insanity that John is thankful for as it keeps him mind from wandering, dwelling on the tiny little device tucked into the inner pocket of his jacket and the almighty punch to his reality that it had revealed.

As opposed to Sherlock's usual response when unwilling to jump to a conclusion- _not enough data_- John was now faced with the opposite conundrum. Too much information and no idea how to make any sense out of it. It was there, John knew, an entire _reason _for all Sherlock had done, but it was too nebulous for John to grasp, especially now. It was impossible for John to multi-task in this situation. Hell, he couldn't even take a deep breath at the mere thought of Sherlock now and he knew this would continue to be the case until Sherlock was found.

So, it was lucky his time to dwell was brief because the address Wiggins had texted to John was close and given that it was well past the morning rush, John was pulling into a nearly empty petrol station parking lot in Stroud Green in less than thirty minutes.

If- no, _when_- Sherlock was found, and safe (safe above all else in John's powers) he was more than certain the weight of everything he had yet to unravel would likely be more than he could bear. But, until then, getting to Sherlock was first priority and looking out the window of his car, the first piece to solving that puzzle was just walking up.

"Dr. Watson." Wiggins nodded in greeting as John exited the car. He looked good, better for certain than the first time they met, still lanky and lean but without that lost, wasted pallor from before. Working for Sherlock was agreeing with the young man.

John stood tall, hands clasped behind his back, eyes narrowed on the thin face in front of him. Down to business. "This is where Sherlock met you?"

The younger man looked to his feet before lifting his chin in a quick motion, gesturing toward the other end of the deserted street where the trees and undergrowth grew in an untamed area around an old abandoned structure.. "Just down there. An old bridge house Mr. Holmes had...cause to use at times."

"Ah," John murmured before clearing his throat and turned to make his way there, leaving the decision to Wiggins to follow or not. He does. "A bolthole." John says more to himself, needing no confirmation. "Guess you're privy to the where those are now, then?" He tries to keep from sounding bitter, knowing he fails spectacularly.

"A few of them, sir, that I've been given instruction about. I'm sure there's others-" Other boltholes and other persons in the know.

Just not John.

There's no time for John to be jealous, though jealousy where Sherlock was concerned was always a hard thing for John to control. "Yeah. I'm sure." He agrees, disheartened but bent to the task as he steps from the curb of the road to the barely visible path that leads to the water's edge. "What were you meant to do for him here. The text made no sense to me."

"Well, it wouldn't then, would it, sir?"

John's turns on his heel, ready to punch the smartarse in the mouth when he's halted by the completely guileless expression on the face of the youth.

Wiggins stopped, having seen _that_ particular look on John Watson's face before. He rubs his arm subconsciously with a wince. "Mr. Holmes weren't one to mess around. None of us that works for him knows all there's to know. How else he's 'sposed to keep a spot ahead all those criminals? No, Mr. Holmes, he's learned us few that's proved worthy. Did myself good Christmas, didn't I? Told Mr. Holmes and you's no harm would come to the little one." He was awfully proud of himself for that. "I've a list, see. A code he's given me, so as I know what's to be done. That message, I was to come 'ere, alone, meandering, so's not to be followed, mind. The old Mr. Holmes, gotta keep outta sight from 'im, avoid the cameras." His hand flaps around as if to indicate any CCTV in the area. Which there isn't.

Sherlock picked a prime spot that's for certain.

"So, I got that message, knew what needed doin' and did it. I brought the bag he'd left with me and made sure I got here alone and not followed."

"And, that's it? You gave him a bag and what? Left?"

"Yes, sir. That's all Himself's asked me to do."

John hadn't known what he thought the boy could tell him outside of the fact of just where he had last seen Sherlock, it just seemed like it should have been more, especially as they step up to the abandoned building and find it empty of consulting detective.

"Shit." John sighs as he sees the bag (non-descript black duffel) Wiggins had obviously brought sitting in the dirt of the floor along side a disheveled mound of black bespoke suit. "_Shit._" He whispers to himself, dragging his hand across his face in frustration. "What was in the bag?" He asks, squatting to investigate the loan piece of luggage.

John looks up when there isn't a ready answer and sees the brief flash of guilt across Wiggins' face at John's question.

"It's ok, Billy. I don't give a fuck if you had a peek and I certainly won't tell him if that's the case, but if you _did_, then whatever you know could help me find him."

The boy looked torn, his arms wrapping his chest as his hands rubbed his upper arms nervously.

The weight of what Wiggins wasn't saying was stifling, and though John could appreciate, hell, even admire, the boy's allegiance to Sherlock, hesitating was not helping find Sherlock.

"There's a code..He helped me. I'm clean now, you see..."

"I know." John offers honestly, his hand reaching up to rest reassuringly on Wiggins' forearm, because he understands and though this is not the worst thing that could be happening right now it is cold comfort. "I'm worried about him, Billy. I need to find him."

He nods. "There were some clothes: jeans, blue t-shirt, grey hoodie and grey trainers. Money, not sure how much, looked to be a right fair amount, and then there was a smaller bag." His eyes stare at something just to the left of John's shoulder, refusing to meet John's questioning gaze.

"What was in the bag?" John's pretty sure he knows, but until he hears it, in plain English, his mind is not going to let him go there.

"It was a chemist's bag, you know, from the chemist?"

John nods, his throat too tight to speak just yet, waiting patiently, encouraging the younger man to continue with no pressure.

"Lots of those little swabby things-"

"Alcohol preps?" John chokes out automatically.

"Yeah, that's the ones. And, well, there was a...a spoon and a whole box of...needles."

"Syringes?" John can barely get the word out, and waits for the rest of the list of contents of the bag.

"Oh," Wiggins offers quickly. "Yeah, syringes."

"Is that it?"

"Yes, sir, that was all."

That there were no drugs in the bag was no reassurance to John as he sees the duffel was empty and the chemist's bag with all the paraphernalia nowhere in sight.

John huffed a cynical laugh to himself as he shoved Sherlock's discarded suit into the bag.

Was this a lesser of two evils kind of situation? Sherlock's only strung out, God knows where, as opposed to trying to outwit a psychopath? Definitely a no-win scenario no matter how John looked at it and his stomach gave a threatening lurch as he got to his feet, fisting a hand through his hair in frustration.

"Where would he go?" John asks abruptly.

Wiggins startled. "I don't know, sir-"

"_Think!_" John comes close to shouting, his self-control nearing it's end. "You know. At least, you know where we should start looking. This _is_ your area-"

"Was." He added sharply, clearly proud of the progress and turn around he had made in his life, and now prepared to be indifferent to what John is capable of when pushed.

If John had been thinking clearly, he would have apologised for being so harsh, but he didn't have time for platitudes now. "Yes, and just who do you have to thank for that?" He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath before he allowed himself to unleash all of his angst against the boy. "I know you've changed, but you still know things...places, people." John's throat closed around the words, barely managing to get them past the strangling knot of worry that was lodged there. "_If _Sherlock's back to this, to the fucking drugs- it's different this time. It's not for a case. Do you get that? Do you understand?" John paused, taking a deep breath. It was neither helpful nor the place for John to give into the desperately helpless feeling that he was struggling against.

John hated feeling desperate, but that's the point Sherlock had pushed him to. "We've got to find him. Just. Help me find him. Please."

John should have felt better once he had dropped Wiggins back in town. They had coordinated the contacting of all of Sherlock's homeless network, sending everyone on the lookout for the missing detective. John was confident in letting Wiggins handle the legwork in this instance, but it caused a tender ache in John's chest when he realized just how divergent Sherlock and John's lives had become that left John so clueless as to where he could possibly be.

So, John sat in his car with a guilty heart with no clue where his best friend could be or what state he might be found in if...no, that was a thought too cruel to entertain.

Sherlock was going to be found. He was going to be just fine, eventually. And, John was never going to leave his side again.

Natch.

_Jesus._ Where did that thought come from? How could he even think that? What with Mary and the baby. God, the baby. There was a child, innocent and definitely not at fault for the fucked up mess of a set of parents she was cursed to have to endure.

John closed his eyes with a deep inhalation, shaking his head, trying to clear away his confusion. He had too many questions and was all too aware of just how slow he was to understand the subtle nuances of the people in his life to try to make sense of them on his own.

It didn't stop him from acknowledging the small blossom of hope that had started to bud in his chest earlier in Baker Street. Didn't stop the tiny shifting of gears, the seemingly inconsequential cogs of forgotten moments slotting into place, shifting and reordering things John had thought certain in his reading in the moment, only to realize they all might have added up to more.

So much more than John would have ever dared dream.

The worst thought of all that plagued him now was what if John's truth (or what he thought to be truth) hadn't been Sherlock's at all? What if John had misread _everything_ from the beginning?

How had Sherlock survived that?

_Apparently not very well, John. He's _missing_ and probably on the bender of his life-_

The buzz of John's phone ended his self-flagellation, if only briefly. "Mycroft, tell me you've found him."

John had texted Mycroft all of the damning evidence that he and Wiggins had discovered at the abandoned bolthole. While John hated the thought of tattling to Sherlock's big brother again, he was more than pissed that Sherlock was doing something so stupid to put John in the position to have to do so again to begin with.

His moment of relief was fleeting. "No, John, I'm sorry. I just wanted to inform you I do have several leads and there's a great likelihood that we shall find my errant brother before nightfall."

John sagged against his seat in relief. "Thank God." He sighed, feeling as if someone had cut his strings. "Fair warning, Mycroft, when he is found, I'm going to bloody _kill_ him."

A quiet, dignified chuckle murmured across the airwaves. "We'll form an orderly queue." John barked out a laugh born of disbelief in the fact that Mycroft had attempted a joke and the edge of anxiety that had held John firmly in it's grasp all day.

"Just so long as I get first crack." John managed to say with a half-hearted smile.

"John," Mycroft cleared his throat, his unexpected hesitation before continuing putting the doctor on high alert. "John, I have to apologize. I never intended- I should have-"

John froze for a moment, the terrifying sense that they had had this conversation before forcing John to the edge of panic. He was suddenly back to that night, and how was it suddenly now _years_ ago that it had happened at all, the night Sherlock had jumped from the roof of Bart's, and John, at the Diogenes Club, hearing those same words from Mycroft.

Little comfort it was to know now that it had all been a ruse then, John would forever live with the image and the sheer heart-rending terror, grief and guilt of watching a desperate Sherlock jump to his death. Compounding the remembered terror now with the knowledge it had been to save John. To save Mrs. Hudson. To save Lestrade.

But, this was different, wasn't it? This wasn't a conspiracy John was unaware of and the words Mycroft now uttered didn't mean the same at all. No_. Not this time_. This time John was not being left out in the cold, Sherlock was not 'dead' and John was going to do everything in his power to get him back.

"We're both at fault for this one, Mycroft. Neither of us realized it as a 'danger night'."

"'Danger night'." Mycroft quietly repeated, his tone tinted with faint surprise that John resolutely refused to recognize. "Yes, you are correct. It was a danger night. We _should _have known. _I_ should have known better-"

"It's alright. A mistake. We won't make it again. Just find him, Mycroft, that's all I ask. Let's just find him. We can do that for him, can't we?"

"Of course, that's my fervent wish." John knew it was true. He had noticed, since Sherlock's return, a difference in the relationship between the two brothers. Absolutely, it was still antagonistic and childish, but there was an underlying degree of near-affection between the two that hadn't been present before Sherlock's fall.

"I think we both have a great deal to make up to him." It's a confession John would have never thought he'd hear from this certain member of the Holmes family, and a recognition of a sentiment John thought known only to himself. He shouldn't have been caught so off-guard by that fact as he was; Mycroft was eerily even more perceptive in reading people than Sherlock, especially when it came to human emotion.

"Go home, John." Mycroft's soft command breaks the silence John's ruminating had created and John is uncertain how long he had been vacant in his thoughts. "When Sherlock is found, he will need his doctor."

The call ends as Mycroft's words sink into John's chest like a dull ache.


	7. Chapter 7

_Back again. His path nearly lost; overgrown, vine and tree; gnarled limbs- reaching, reaching, nearly caught in their grasp. The struggle he thought was over; never finished. Not finished. Not finished. They followed so close. Too close. Their breath against his neck. Their words in his ear. It wasn't over. It was never over. Hide. Hide, don't let them find you. In the darkness, the fear a writhing, black shadow in the underbrush. Rustling, swirling, clawing, grasping, pulling. Slime-black and oil-coated. The world tilts. Sways. Unfocused, the shape unclear, though he knows it so well. So familiar, his constant companion, persuing, chasing him. His marrow burns, itches. He would scratch his very soul, and knows, it is time once again. The tension and torment hover, ghosts of fear, ready and vigilant to reap what he has sown. Held at bay with the pinch of skin, the burn of purgatory, _Welcome back, old friend._ The king of hell whispers in his ear, his trembling eases, his path clears, the darkness opens and he's slipping, loosened and the water envelops him. Familiar. Calm. Soothing. Warm and luxurious, the limpid blue surrounds him. Transformed. Beautiful bliss, the caress of a lover he's never known. Aches to know. The one thought that hovers. Permanence in simplicity. Perfection on his lips, and his mind settles, descends, surrenders to the only thought that grounds him... _

_John._

"_Go home, John. When Sherlock is found, he will need his doctor."_

Mycroft's words echo in his head, leaving John rattled to the point that he is halfway to Baker Street before he realizes. The instinct to equate 221B to home is Pavlovian and one John had thought he had long broken.

He's not Sherlock's doctor, not anymore, not that he had ever been Sherlock's 'anything' really. His 'blogger' was a given, but anything beyond that was non-existent to the point of pain the few times he had allowed himself to think about it.

What he is now is Mary's husband and a soon-to-be father, and in the panic and rush to find his friend, he had forgotten all of that. Too easily and so telling.

Telling, yes, but should John listen? In light of all that was going on, John was at a loss as to what to make of it all; to believe, much less allow the swirling miasma of thoughts to coalesce long enough to become a complete thought. The temptation was too great where Sherlock was concerned. Where Sherlock had always been concerned. It wasn't as if his life wasn't complicated enough as it was; a wife who had lied about her past, an assassin with whom Sherlock had compelled John to reconcile. And, he had. Christmas, John had all but made up with Mary, but it hadn't been the same. His trust in her was shattered, and she knew it. John was a terrible actor and though he tried to put his best face forward, he fell entirely too short. He might have managed, he told himself over and over, if Sherlock hadn't killed Magnussen, but the guilt John lived with for that; reliving that moment; seeing _that_ look on Sherlock's face in the aftermath, it left John hollow and incapable of much more than managing to hold tight to his reins.

Clever Mary. His struggles never slipped past her knowing, calculating gaze and he felt trapped. A specimen under the lens of her bitter resentment. The shadow of love was there, would always be there. Mary had been a lifesaver after...after Sherlock's death, the ever-present and growing ripeness of her belly a testament to that truth, always. But what was there now beyond that? John hated himself for constantly questioning, doubting. How was he ever meant to get past that? Could he ever be the husband Mary deserved when, deep down, John wasn't certain now that Mary was the wife he deserved?

His stomach ached with the traitorous thought. Neither of them were perfect, and this was definitively a case where two negatives did not make a positive and John was heartbroken that they were bringing an innocent child into the middle of such an untenable relationship.

John's guilt was only compounded by these dark thoughts when he thought now, of Sherlock, and the part he had played in all of this. That he had sacrificed so much for John and for Mary; it left John hollow with remorse.

So, even though his home was with Mary now, it didn't feel right to be there at this moment, with so many unanswered questions and vague suspicions dancing in his head; not until the matter with Sherlock was resolved and loose ends at once tied up. He had no desire to face Mary, to sit under her scrutiny and have her read all that he had running round in his head, coming to conclusions before he even had a chance to make sense of anything.

Noticing the time on the dash and frustratingly finding this never-ending day only halfway over, he reached for his phone and the hint of a familiar smile graced the firm line his mouth had been set in all morning when the voice on the other end picked up.

"Lestrade."

"Greg, mate, free for lunch?"

Luckily, he was and soon John was walking into NSY with curry for two, heading for the CDI's office. John barely managed a nod in Donovan's direction, his bitterness with her still very fresh and not likely to come to an end that John could ever see. He placed a great amount of fault for his years worth of grief on her shoulders. The only good thing was that Anderson was no longer hanging about to reap John's cold gaze on a regular basis as well.

"John, good to see you." Greg came around his desk, taking the bag of food from John as he struggled with the cardboard carry-out tray with two styrofoam cups of tea on it.

"Ta, Greg. Sorry, it's been a while, yeah?"

Lestrade's face shifted, the warm smile slipping to a more sombre scowl. "Been a lot on your plate just lately."

John cleared his throat, taking a seat in front of the desk as the Inspector eyed him knowingly. "You could say that."

John ignored the aluminium container of food Lestrade doled out in front of them in favor of sipping at the lukewarm tea he had brought in.

"Surprised I hadn't seen you in here before now," Greg offered, ripping the cello cover from his plastic fork before dealing with unsealing the lid from his food. "Our leads on Moriarty are pretty thin, but you and Sherlock must be onto something a bit firmer. Just like old times," He adds with a familiar smile, as yet to realize John's silence and stern face hint at much weightier concerns. "The two of you, slipping right back into the old routine, eh?"

Lestrade takes a healthy bite of his lunch, his eyes growing wide and questioning as he watched John, silently place the recording device from Sherlock's bag onto the middle of his desk.

John cleared his throat, swallowing hard against the rise of sudden emotion. "I, um. I found this at the flat today," He thinks about the recording, of the bit he listened to earlier, learning such a horrifying truth. He clears his throat again, but his voice still shatters around the words, "Remember, Greg...do you remember when we first met and you said Sherlock was a great man and you hoped one day," John rewinds the little machine back to the beginning. "You hoped..."

John's voice finally gives way and he is thankful when Lestrade picks up what he was saying, "I hoped one day he'd be a good one? Yeah. Yeah, I remember that, sure." His smile is wistful, remembering that night; a drug's bust and soon-to-be dead serial killer cabbie.

The start of something important for two lost and lonely men.

John nods, his eyes closed as he breathes deep and presses play.

"_I'm a doctor, let me come, let me come through, please. No, he's my friend, he's my friend. Please. Jesus, no. God. No."_

_There's the muffled sounds of movement; the teeth-grinding rattle of the metal of the stretcher and squeak of it's wheels along the pavement; too many voices speaking at once to pick out just what any one is saying. Then there is the quiet swish of the doors of St. Bart's sliding closed and the maelstrom ceases until Molly Hooper's voice cuts the silence._

"_You're clear." Faint movement, the shift of what sounds like fabric. "The Yard should be here soon. It seems it all worked just how you planned, of course." Molly's soft laugh. "Of course it would, I mean," She stops, moments of silence. "Sherlock?"_

"_John," It's barely a whisper, in a voice so broken. "What..."_

"_Wait," Molly's shush is followed by sounds in the background, her voice from far away. "Don't get up." Closer again. "Drink this." Had she gotten him some water? "Breathe, Sherlock. Just breathe, ok? Your team is with him, it's ok. He's ok..."_

"_No, he's not! I can't. Jesus, what have I done?"_

_More muffled movement against the machine recording everything, their voices now barely able to make out. _

"_You did what you had to do. You said there was no other way. It'll be fine, Sherlock."_

"_When? How can it ever be?"_

_Silence. "I don't know." So quiet, straining to hear._

"_He'll never forgive me but he has to be safe. There is nothing, Molly, nothing I won't do to keep John safe."_

"_I know, Sherlock. I know."_

"Jesus Christ."

John was unaware of when Lestrade had switched off the recorder; was clueless to how long he had been sitting there in that terrible silence left by Sherlock's anguish.

The Inspector was on his feet, his hand rough as he swept it across his hair, one hand on his hip with his back to John. "Fucking hell. He did it," Lestrade struggled with his words as John just struggled to breathe. "He died for us. And, the bastard didn't tell us? Just came back, the smarmy git he always was, and never said a word?"

"He's been missing since Friday." John was numb, his words a monotone, as if to put any inflection would be more than he could handle.

At this moment, it was. Listening to the entire recording had been a mistake. It was too much. Couldn't think about it now, let alone process any of it.

"Mycroft's looking, his homeless networks looking. We think it's drugs, found some pretty damning evidence..."

"Friday? He's been gone since Friday?!" Lestrade complained. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"_I didn't know!"_ John's yell was ferocious and without thought. "Shit, sorry. I'm...sorry." He scrubbed his hand wearily over his face. "I had been texting him all weekend, thought it was just the Moriarty thing, and Mycroft, keeping him tied up, but I never heard back. Went to the flat this morning and there was no sign of him, but I found his phone and coat still there, the flat spotless. So you know-"

"Yeah, he must not have been there." Lestrade sat back down, resting his elbows against the desk. "What can we do?"

John shook his head. "I honestly don't know."

They sat in silence, each struggling to come to terms with all they now knew.

"John?"

The quiet entreaty terrified John more than it had a right to and he just looked at the Inspector, imploringly.

"Do you-" The detective seemed concerned with what he was about to say, but determined none the less. "John, that tape, what he said, at the end. Sherlock, he's...you have to know that he's-"

"Don't," John choked out and could have sobbed in relief when his mobile rang out. "Whatever you were about to say, just don't. I can't," He didn't finish; didn't need to and Lestrade nodded his understanding as John answered the call.

"We've found him, John." He had never known how much he loved hearing Mycroft's voice as when he heard those words across the line.

John was instantly on his feet, prepared to run from the room. "Where? Where is he? Is he...Is he all right?"

Terror gripped him tightly, the dread of this unknown now fully weighted against him.

"As fine as to be expected."

"Thank God," He shared a faint smile with Lestrade who was anxiously listening for news. "Text me the address and I'll be there as soon as I can."

"No. He's being moved as we speak. I'm sending a car to pick you up. It should arrive within the next ten minutes."

"Oh," John's brow furrowed as he calculated. "I'm not at home, actually, I'm at the Yard-"

"Yes." Mycroft replied, the 'obviously' heavily implied, but John just rolled with it. After all, he was used to this particular Holmes brother knowing his actions long before he ever did.

"Good, well. That's good then." He stammered, shoving a hand in his pocket to stop the tremor that had been worrying him all morning. He was certain it's appearance now was just the rush of relief at knowing Sherlock was safe.

"Yes, very good. I will see you soon, John."

"Thank you, Mycroft."

The call was disconnected and John stared at the phone in his hand until Lestrade gave his shoulder a friendly squeeze.

"He's gonna be just fine, John. You'll see to it."

John cleared his throat, putting his phone back in his pocket and reaching for his jacket. "Yeah. Yes. Yes, I will."


	8. Chapter 8

Lestrade walked with John down to wait for the car Mycroft was sending. As they stood on the curb, the sounds of London traffic did little to diminish the silence that hung heavy between them.

"Listen, John-"

"No," John shook his head, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his trousers, shoulders drawn up around his ears. "It's fine, Greg. It's all fine."

The Inspector heaved a deep sigh. "Is it?"

John's back stiffened and he narrowed his eyes as he turned, steeling himself for what the man standing across from him might say.

Lestrade held his hands up. "Hey, I'm on your side, remember? But," He hesitated, pausing to make certain he said the right words. "But, I'm on Sherlock's, too." He shook his head as John took a breath, refusing to let the doctor interrupt. "The two of you. Jesus, John, the two of you have been dancing around each other for years-"

"Fucking hell, Greg." John ground out. "It's not like that. Sherlock and I- We never..."

"Doesn't mean that it's impossible."

"I'm _married_."

Lestrade sniffed, looking up at the grey London sky. "Yeah, well, I was, too, once. Nothing's permanent."

"I-" John wasn't certain he knew what he was going to say. What could he say to something like that? He pinched the bridge of his nose, a well-spring of frustration bubbling just beneath his barely controlled surface, and ended up being thankful for the sleek black sedan that pulled up in front of him. Clearing his throat, and shoving their conversation to the back of his mind, John held out his hand. "I'll keep you posted."

Lestrade raised one brow speculatively but offered no further recrimination, merely taking John's proffered hand in a friendly shake. "You do that and tell Sherlock there'll be hell to pay if he dares to show his face around here _any_time soon."

John's lip tipped in the facsimile of a smile as he was reminded of the uncertainty of Sherlock's current condition. Physically, and above all else, mentally and nodded his agreement to the detective.

Sighing in relief, John slipped into the empty backseat of the waiting car. Although he was anxious to know how Sherlock was and what he had been up to and _why_, he didn't think he could have managed staying focused enough to have followed that conversation if Mycroft had been in the car.

Caught up in his own thoughts, John was unaware of the direction they were traveling in until he noticed the city giving way to wider vistas and less traffic; definitely nowhere near Baker Street.

"Excuse me?" He asked towards the front of the car and the silent driver. "Where are we going?"

"Mr. Holmes gave me instruction to bring you to Somerset, sir."

Somerset? They had all been to Somerset for Christmas. At Sherlock's parents' home. Jesus, that hadn't even been a month ago and yet, felt like an age. Is that where Mycroft had taken Sherlock? Was there a facility close so that his parents could keep a watchful eye on their wayward son?

John checked the time on his phone, seeing it was half one in the afternoon of this unending day. Traffic was light, but there was probably another two hours' drive time before they arrived. He sent a quick text to Wiggins, letting the young man know Sherlock had been found and that John would let him know as soon as he found out himself how he was doing.

He stared at the phone for long minutes, debating phoning Mary. He should. He really _should_, but he was at a loss to what he would say.

"_Sorry, love, I'm out of town to be with Sherlock. He's gone and gotten himself high, I'm really worried about him and I feel like he needs me right now."_

His free hand strayed to the pocket of his jacket that held the voice recorder, tracing the outline of the device but refraining from pulling it back out.

"_I think there may be more to Sherlock than I ever dared to realize, so I want to spend some time with him and try to figure it all out."_

Yeah. No.

He definitely wasn't calling Mary knowing full well he wouldn't be able to manufacture the nonchalance it would take to keep her from reading all his turmoil from the sound of his voice. But his guilt and always struggling with the right thing to do, he couldn't leave the thought of contacting her completely, so he texted her quickly instead.

_[1:41 PM]_

_May be late tonight._

_Working with Sherlock._

_~John_

Not quite a lie but not exactly the truth either. He would have to live with that. Mary knew Sherlock's history with illegal substances, but he also knew the detective had to be in a fragile state at the moment to be driven to it so soon again after the Magnussen ordeal, and he just didn't want to listen to her pass judgment on the man just now.

He wasn't surprised when she responded quickly.

_[1:45 PM]_

_Is it the Moriarty case?_

_I'm not sure you should get mixed up in that again._

_[1:45 PM]_

_It's related. Not really much I can tell._

_Will be in touch later._

_~J_

_[1:46 PM]_

_Ok. We girls will be waiting for you_

_when you get home. 3_

_~M _

John sighed as a fresh wave of guilt washed over him with the reminder of the baby. He hadn't thought a second about her and he knew he had to do better about that.

The drive was silent and uneventful, and John's earlier speculation proved true as they pulled alongside an identical sedan in the gravel drive of the Holmes' family cottage. As he exited the automobile, his anticipation of soon laying eyes on Sherlock was quickly diminished as the raised voices from inside easily made their way to him.

"You can't do this!" Sherlock bellowed as John silently entered the front door. They were in the parlor where John and Mary had so recently reconciled. Sherlock's back was to John where he was flanked by two of Mycroft's rather bulky lackeys. Mycroft faced John at the other side of the room, and though John's certain Mycroft saw him, he gave no outward indication.

"On the contrary, brother mine, it's already done."

"You're no fucking brother to me, and I'm not a child. You can't keep me here!" Sherlock growled, halted from lunging at Mycroft by the goons at his side.

"Oi!" John interceded as Sherlock violently continued to try to make his way at his brother. He froze the moment he heard the firmness of John's tone, sparing a cold glance over his shoulder at the smaller man in the door.

"For God's sake, you called in the bloody cavalry?"

John narrowed his eyes in indignation as Mycroft's heavy sigh filled the silence between Sherlock's heaving breaths. "If it weren't for Dr. Watson, I wouldn't have known you were up to this again until perhaps it was too late."

"And, your point is?" Sherlock retorted spitefully.

"Jesus, Sherlock," John hissed. "The point is, I've been worried sick all day, wondering where you are and what you were up to. Though that's plain to see now."

And it was, John acknowledged, taking in the appearance of the lanky detective, and frankly, he was a mess and it was such a juxtaposition to his normally pristine appearance it was more than a little off-putting. His hair was a tatted, greasy mess, his usual porcelain complexion now sallow and covered in days' worth of beard-growth. His clothes were filthy, covered in God knows what.

Sherlock avoided John's deductive gaze, resting them at John's feet as he scratched at his forearm in what John knew to be a side-effect of the likely cocktail of opiates he had been partaking in.

"Obviously, there was nothing for you to worry about. I'm fine, and why do you even care?" He whirled back on Mycroft, "I don't answer to you. You had no right to bring me here!"

John's fists clench painfully at his sides.

Mycroft closed his eyes against Sherlock's outburst. "How many times are we going to have to do this, Sherlock? You should understand by now that there is only one way this will go." Mycroft looked to John as he continued. "It's a rehab facility or this, if the good doctor is willing to help you."

"What?" Sherlock cried in disbelief as John stuttered, "Wait-"

"You see, Mycroft. John can't be here, doesn't want to be here. You shouldn't have _called _him in the first place. He has a life, you know. A _wife-"_

John tried to hide the flinch at the word so harshly uttered by Sherlock. "And, none of those things can't wait a bit while I help my friend."

Sherlock's laugh was bitter. "Friend." He muttered to himself. "Go home, John. There's nothing for you here. I'm not doing this." He made to move towards the door but Mycroft's men blocked his way. "Call off your dogs, Mycroft." He scowled.

"No, that is not going to happen. You are going to make a choice. What shall it be?"

Sherlock growled, pulling at his hair, double-fisted in a furious, painful tug. "Fuck you, Mycroft! I'm not sitting around while _John Watson _plays baby-sitter. I don't _need_ his help, or yours!"

He was quick, side-stepping the men meant to detain him as he headed for the door. Anger and fury rolled off him in palpable waves, and it's not his best friend, Sherlock Holmes, now before him, but some drug-addled stranger that John fears is here to stay.

Mindless of the threat of the unknown that Sherlock poses to unleash, John steels himself, drawing up tight, shoulders straight as he steps into Sherlock's path.

"If you take one more step towards that door..." His voice is low but grounded in full-on Captain Watson tone.

Sherlock reels, bristling, roiling, thoughts writhing behind his clouded eyes, his skin itching with the need to lash out. Somewhere, beneath the miasma of the drugs, there is still that core of _Sherlock_ that doesn't like John seeing him like this. Is ashamed but too fucked up to realize that's the emotion that is truly throttling his ability to think at the moment.

"You'll what, John?" It's a sneer, feral and all teeth, rising to his full height, trying to intimidate the smaller man. His shame in doing so making his drug-fueled anger multiply exponentially. "You'll stop me_ how_, John? _Shoot me_?" It's a taunt hissed between clenched teeth, and one that only John and Sherlock truly understand the atrocity of it's implication.

The taunt is short-lived, however, the painful fuse between them now bursting to bright flame as Sherlock finds himself thrown to the ground before he can blink, caught off guard by the haze of the drugs flooding his system. The Captain is immediately over him, a forearm to Sherlock's throat, incapacitating and easily holding him in place. Sherlock sees red, struggling uselessly and panting against the stranglehold. No need for drugs when there is this kind of ire.

"Get. Off. Me." He hisses between strangled breaths.

But the doctor maintains his hold, his own breathing harsh in Sherlock's face, his face red with rising anger. "Sherlock, I'm warning you."

It's a standoff, neither of them willing to give or bend to the will of the other. They are blind to the three other men in the room, neither seeing Mycroft signaling his men to stand down. He will let them work this out at their own pace.

And, no one knows better than Mycroft, when it comes to his brother, that no one could ever get through to him in this circumstance except John Watson.

Sherlock has the audacity to laugh, bitter and hateful, squirming against John's hold, testing his strength as it's answered by John pressing tighter against his throat. Lifting his chin, Sherlock aims to relieve a bit of the pressure, but John follows his movement, giving him no quarter. His eyes narrow in vehemence. "Guess this means the misses is a better shot if you have to resort to savagery."

Theoretically, John knows this is the drugs causing Sherlock to be so caustic, to lash out, but it still hits low so he moves his arms and grabs Sherlock by the shirt front, slamming his head against the floor. The resulting thud and Sherlock's grunt of pain echoes loudly in the dead-silence of the sitting room.

"You utter fucking prick," John snarled, a blinding frustration taking control of his last shred of patience with the consulting detective. "I. am. Here." He drags in a deep breath, his voice low, menacing, trying to force his meaning into Sherlock, past the dead eyes that are staring up at him.

It guts John to see that look in those eyes. They should be clear, bright, burning with preternatural intelligence, but they are cold and flat and lifeless and John shivers in remembrance of that moment, when he had looked into the dead eyes of Sherlock Holmes, on the pavement outside of Bart's.

No pulse. Not breathing. The blood an horrific halo around his head...

Never again. He can't see this man like that. Ever again.

"I'm here, Sherlock," His voice catches as it softens, his heart shrinking under the weight of all the pain they have suffered.

Alone. Together.

That Sherlock is still suffering through, even now.

John loosens his grip, unclenching his fists from the fabric of Sherlock's t-shirt, but stays where he is, holding the younger man in place with his sheer will and body weight when he registers some of the fight had left the detective when he realized the same of John.

"I didn't ask you to be here, John."

John shakes his head, a derisive laugh escaping as he rests his forehead against Sherlock's collarbone. "No. You didn't. You never do. Never." John clears his throat, lifting his head now to focus his shining eyes on Sherlock's face. "But, that's how this works."

"What?" Sherlock asks, without guile, completely at a loss as to what John is meaning.

Deep breath. "You and me. Us."

It's Sherlock's turn to scoff, trying in vain to push the older man off him, who just resists. "There's no _us._" His nose wrinkles in disgust. Or is it?

John bows his head again, clearing his throat as he nods. "Yeah, ok." He pushes himself back in one swift move, resting on his knees between Sherlock's splayed legs. "If you say so, Sherlock."

It seems Sherlock had forgotten that he had just been struggling to get up only moments ago, as he stays where he is, his head tilting and John can tell he's trying to deduce something, so John lets him. He sits there, on his heels and hides nothing from the all-seeing Sherlock Holmes. But the scowl on the younger man's brow proves that his brain is too muzzled to figure out any meaning behind John's actions and words.

John scrubs a hand over his face in frustration before getting to his feet, rubbing his knee absently as he does.

That action doesn't get past Sherlock, and his eyes narrow.

"It doesn't matter right now," He holds out a hand and helps Sherlock to his feet but doesn't let go, his grip tightening painfully to emphasize his next words. "I'm here. I'm not leaving, and you're not leaving." John's sigh is heavy, the weight of just how tired he is now pulling on him.

The two men stand there, silent, hands gripping, looking at one another for longer than either intended before John finally manages to break their stare. "Go take a shower, you reek. Mycroft, let's have a cuppa, shall we?"

John turns and heads for the kitchen, leaving Sherlock to stare after him, knowing something has just happened but is clueless as to what it is before he dutifully goes to the bathroom without a word, leaving Mycroft smirking in his wake.


	9. Chapter 9

"Would you know where your mum keeps the tea?" John asked, shutting the water off as the kettle filled. Proper busy work.

Mycroft stepped up to the table, placing his hands at the back of one of the dining chairs, gripping the back in an uncharacteristically nervous fashion.

"John, I know that this-"

"Ah, never mind, found it." John interrupted brightly, his movements in pulling down cups and all the tea-making accoutrements not enough to hide the sounds of Sherlock's footsteps on the floor above them, nor enough to quell the unease that continued to plague him. He was still shaking with left-over adrenaline from the encounter with Sherlock, unable to categorize the hollowness that their clash now left him with. "Milk and two sugars, yes?"

"None for me, thanks."

"No sugar, really? Don't let Sherlock hear you say that. He'll be on for days about how you're dieting-"

"Dr. Watson!"

John seemed just as startled by the sudden and unusual outburst from the reserved British civil servant as the man was himself. Mycroft shuffled where he stood, visually discomfited by but managing to persevere none the less, now that he had John's full attention.

"Dr. Watson," Quieter this time, his voice settling back into it's familiar calm, posh tone; once again, the unruffled diplomat. "John, I know this is asking a lot of you."

John scoffed, clearing his throat with a raised brow. "You think? I do have a few things on my plate just now. A job. A wife. A baby on the way. I would have thought you would have_known_that."

"Of course," He replied snidely because Mycroft knew everything, it went without saying. Ever. "That's why I've taken the liberty of informing your employer that you will need to take a few days, which they were happily willing to oblige."

Of that John was certain and he had no desire to know the circumstances under which his 'leave of absence' had been negotiated. Sometimes less was more when dealing with Mycroft Holmes, but it didn't stop the rise of ire at the presumptuousness of Mycroft taking such liberties with John's livelihood.

Some of that anger must have shown on John's face for it quickly prompted the patented Mycroft Holmes dubious brow lift.

"John, have I misunderstood that where my brother is concerned, you aren't willing to do all that you can?"

The implication- "No! You know there's nothing I wouldn't do for him." That is a truth that John has never and could never deny. But- "Of course not, but Mycroft, what you_don't_understand is that_I_don't appreciate being taken for granted."

That comment caused Mycroft to draw himself up sharply and for a second John could have sworn something like guilt flashed in his eyes only to quickly disappear and leave John questioning his own state of mind.

"I assure you, that was never my intention. None of this-" He cut himself off abruptly, nervously shifting his eyes to the side as he slid a hand down the front of his waistcoat.

Now, while John Watson was no Sherlock Holmes, he could still read people to an extent and what he was reading now in the face of Mycroft Holmes was a lot more guilt than made sense in the situation. "None of what?" He hedged curiously.

The sounds of a door slamming and unidentifiable movements from upstairs caught the attention of both men, and Mycroft used the disruption effectively to stop John's line of questioning. "I've taken the precaution of supplying you with a basic medical kit, anything you might need to aid a patient-"

"Through narcotics withdrawal." John sighed heavily, scrubbing a weary hand down his face. "Jesus, Mycroft, don't you think it would be better if he were in hospital or a clinic somewhere?"

"You're a doctor, John, more than capable."

"Yes, but is this ethical? Is it even the right thing to do? Shouldn't he have a say-"

The knuckles of Mycroft's hands turned white as he gripped the chair fiercely. "Did you see him? Did you hear him, John? Do you think he is capable, in this moment, of making any kind of_informed_decision?"

Frustration mounting, John leaned his back against the kitchen counter, crossing his arms tightly across his chest and knew Mycroft was right. "_Shit._" He hissed under his breath. "Yes, all right. Ok, but..."

Apparently, John's acquiescence was all Mycroft had been waiting to hear as the man stood up straight, his veil of aristocracy once more slipping into place. "Very good. Now, our parents are out of town. I thought it prudent, at the time of Sherlock's imminent departure from the country, that they should have something to take their minds off the situation. I've sent them on a three week cruise of the Greek isles."

"Lovely." John continued with the ritual of tea-making. "And rather convenient, seeing as how Moriarty suddenly turned back up."

"Well, yes. It was...serendipitous." Mycroft's tone was odd, but John let the thought dissipate as one of the men in Mycroft's employ entered the kitchen, handing over several file folders to his waiting employer. "Thank you, Miles." He offered quietly with a quick nod, staring at the documents in his hands before looking back to John.

Absently, John stood to attention upon seeing the intel, assuming the definition of his current job description was about to expand to include aiding Sherlock in his recovery and to help track down Moriarty.

"It's going to be a few days until Sherlock's up to par and able to get to work."

The look on Mycroft's face was bizarre, almost as if he didn't know what John was talking about until he followed John's eyes back to the files in his own hands. There was more going on here than John could quite grasp at the moment and Mycroft's following words did nothing to counteract his uneasiness.

"There is nothing I would not do for my brother, John, if you know and believe anything of me, I hope you understand that fact above all else."

The sounds once more of Sherlock from upstairs- the slamming of another door, closely followed by the rush of running water (nice to know Sherlock was following John's order for a shower)- offered Mycroft a moment to corral his thoughts before continuing with his weighted words. As he began to speak, the sound outside of a large engine filled the room soon followed by the familiar pulse and thump of a helicopter rotor. John found the fact that there_was_a helicopter in the back garden (he_had_wondered how Mycroft had managed to arrive so quickly) less surprising than the honest and rare emotion he heard resonating in Mycroft's words.

"You have my sincerest apologies," John started to interrupt this second rare offer, but Mycroft held up a hand, shaking his head as he continued. "Plans have a way of not always working the way we would want them to. No matter the amount of attention or care we may put into them."

John snorted with disbelief. "The great Mycroft Holmes is not infallible, is that what you are saying?"

"Human error." Came his blithe reply. He handed John the folders he held reluctantly. "You will have some time on your hands in the coming days and I hope the information you find in those files, though painful as some if might be, will perhaps help you to better understand my need to apologize pre-emptively." He sighed heavily, and John recognized his weary expression as a reflection of his own and sensed the need to remain silent. Sentiment didn't come easily to the Holmes brothers and John was keen to let the elder Holmes have his say without distraction.

Taking a deep breath, Mycroft concluded. "John, at the inception of your involvement with my brother, I turned to my assistant and commented to her that you would either be the making of my brother or make him worse than ever."

It seemed the world froze in that instant, as John sensed the magnitude of what his next words could mean; that John Watson could be seen as Sherlock Holmes' redeemer or his utter downfall. That his involvement with Sherlock could come down to such a black and white scenario was a hard pill to swallow, but John forced his question past the choking bitterness.

"And, what's your verdict?"

A long moment passed before Mycroft answered quietly, "You have been the best thing that could have ever happened to him."

Stunned by the enormity of the comment and incapable of responding, John succeeded in dragging a chair from the table and collapsing into it before his legs gave way beneath him as he watched Mycroft leave.

He held his head in his shaking hands, and closed his eyes to focus on breathing, not at all certain when it had all become too much. This day. This bloody fucking day, would it ever end?

The roar of the helicopter lifting off and moving quickly away brought him back to himself and he pulled closer the files Mycroft had left with him. He was too tired to make any sense out of anything just now, but they were there and he had nothing else to do at the moment.

The folder on top was the thickest, containing more material between it's non-descript brown cover. The front was stamped in block red ink as 'classified' and 'top secret' and it was so Bond-esque and cliched that it made John smile.

But that smile was soon frozen in place along with the blood in his veins as he opened the front cover to see, paper-clipped to the inside, a sheet of paper with the heading from the Central Intelligence Agency bearing a photo of Mary alongside the bio of one, Alina Avramenko.

_God damn fucking Mycroft! _A cold, murderous rage immediately blinded John and he was on the verge of screaming; of shredding every last page of that fucking document; of tearing down the entire bloody house when an horrific crash sounded from upstairs.

With a soldier's reflexes, responding to external stimuli without thought, quick and immediate, John was up the stairs and pounding on the locked bathroom door before he even realized he was moving.

"Sherlock!" His fists beat violently against the door in his panic, a welcome outlet to the continued onslaught of his rage,the only answer to his anger, the sound of the shower. "Open this bloody door,_now!_" He tried not to think of the last time he had begged someone to open a door- Major Sholto on his wedding day- and that John had been, on that day, begging the Major to let him in in lieu of letting himself be murdered made John utterly desperate now. "Sherlock. Sherlock, answer me!"

He thought he heard a weak utterance of his name but couldn't be certain it wasn't just wishful thinking combined with the lulling hush of the running water, but whether he heard it or not was clearly unimportant in light of the lack of clear response from Sherlock.

Giving up the wait, John braced himself, feet apart, shoulder turned in and put all his force behind one hearty heave as the lock of the old door gave way and he stumbled into the bathroom. In the blink of an eye, John took in the scene in utter horror and disbelief. In the washbasin, a spoon and lighter, a small square of aluminium foil with several heinous small brown 'rocks' of heroin; on the floor a used syringe alongside the belt of a dressing gown and the pile of Sherlock's soiled clothes he wore earlier. Sherlock lay at the bottom of the large claw-foot tub, halfway concealed by the torn shower curtain that he must have pulled down over him as he fell.

John rushed to his side, shoving the material and the rod that had once held it in place quickly to the side, the movement causing the younger man to stir, turning his head in John's direction. There was a massive swelling the size of a goose egg on his forehead, but luckily no laceration, above his left eye where he had apparently hit it as he fell.

"You bloody idiot," John hissed, reaching forward to take Sherlock's chin in his hand, tipping the younger man's head with a gentle touch, inspecting for any further damage before moving on and quickly assessing for further injuries.

"John." The detective slurred, his speech sluggish as John inspected a wrist for range of motion.

John shuddered with a kind of relief, that loan word a ballast in the chaos of the moment. He reached around the detective to turn the faucet valve, diverting water from the shower head to stop from flooding the bathroom completely and allow the tub to begin to fill. Sherlock was shivering and John thought they might as well make use of the warm water while they were there since it was obvious Sherlock hadn't been_showering_to any effect.

Ignoring his glaring nudity, John continued his examination of Sherlock, turning his head once more to face him. Sherlock blinked slowly and John noted the constriction of his pupils with a kind of despair. A plethora of curses fought to make their way past John's lips but the doctor recognized their effect and meaning would be lost on the drug-addled lunatic and reserved their use for a later time when their consequence might be maximized.

Once it was obvious that the bump on his head was the extent of Sherlock's injuries, John ignored the puddle on the floor as he was already mostly soaking wet, and sagged to his knees beside the tub as Sherlock started to mutter, "Stupid, stupid," to himself.

"Careful, Sherlock," John reached out a steadying hand as Sherlock shifted closer to the side John was propped against.

"Fascinating." He whispered, leaning in close, squinting his eyes as he observed John. "I'm an idiot. Attention, not enough attention to the dose. The strength was obviously superior," His words lisped, slippery and loose against his tongue. His hand rose from the water, hovering just at the porcelain's curved edge, "Normally calculated, carefully, so I could always hear your voice, but now this is...splendid."

John held his breath listening to his rambling as Sherlock's hand moved forward, fingers trembling. Sherlock's eyes grew wide and his head tilted as his fingers brushed John's jaw.

"This," he whispered. "If I could stay just like this. I could keep you here with me." His fingers now skimmed along John's jaw, his index finger moving to trace John's bottom lip, a whisper of touch that held John breathless. Sherlock's kaleidoscope eyes were eerily incandescent, too unnaturally bright with the pinpoint constriction of his pupils offering minimal contrast, but beautiful none-the-less and they held John enthralled, frozen in the moment and desperate from the gnawing ache that was blooming in his chest.

Sherlock never touched John, or anyone really, for that matter. Of course, there had been the occasional moments; the helping on or off of a jacket (or vest of explosives); the incidental brushing of fingers when passing cups of tea (or holding hands while being chased by the Met). There had been their hug at the wedding, though that had been unbearably one-sided, and the altogether wrongness of their farewell handshake of days before. Besides John, Sherlock shared the occasional embrace with Mrs. Hudson, and John had been the unfortunate witness to the hideous kissing between he and Janine, but as for anything more that John had either observed or participated in beyond those few instances, Sherlock and John were decidedly non-demonstrative.

So, it was only natural that this moment should be so profound. That it wasn't an unusual circumstance for John to wish for more as he held still and let Sherlock touch.

"But, it's all wrong. I've lost you already. Over and over again. No matter what I do, it's never enough. You can't be mine because I'll disappear, they'll make sure of it. I'll have to leave you again because I haven't been burned enough. Not enough. Never enough." Sherlock thrashed, sending water splashing over the side in sudden agitation and John ached with despair as he began to comprehend the depth of Sherlock's anxiety.

"Shh, it's ok, Sherlock. It's ok, calm down," John shushed as if trying to calm a startled animal, holding his hands out to offer the younger man some sort of solace.

"You're not safe. Oh, God, you. You're not. I can't keep you safe, John. I can't." He pulled away from John's grasp, leaving him a helpless witness to the fear and anxiety that took control of the brightest mind he had ever known.

The tears welling in Sherlock's eyes were heartbreaking as he sagged once more against the edge of the tub, the last of his energy now depleted, as he relapsed to the lethargic state induced by the drugs.

He shook his head. "I can't do it again." Sherlock's eyes closed, his words thick on his tongue, the effort to force them out nearly too much as John struggled to hear him. "I can't live in a world without John Watson. I can't, I won't, not again."

Anguished by the desperation of Sherlock's words, and longing to comfort and reassure his best friend, John leaned over, wrapping his arms around the slender shoulders of the lost and broken younger man, pulling him in close, protected and cherished. "You don't have to, Sherlock." He whispered against Sherlock's forehead, closing his own eyes as Sherlock nuzzled close, his nose buried in John's neck, his arms closing tightly around John in something that felt like desperation.

"Please," Sherlock rasped, his breath hot against John's throat. "Don't let me go, John. Please."

"Never." Was his solemn vow.

Wrapped together in their insulated cocoon of _SherlockandJohn_, both men luxuriated in the symbiosis of comfort the simple act of holding the other provided. The precious moment came to an unwelcome end as Sherlock's trembling morphed from emotional overload to a reaction to the rapidly cooling temperature of the water he still sat in. John gave up the ghost of the bath's original intent, leaving it for later, when Sherlock could properly manage a wash once more on his own.

With great effort- Sherlock _was_a lot of consulting detective to handle, high, wet and naked- John somehow managed to haul the lanky git out of the tub without killing either one of them. Sherlock swayed on his feet, but otherwise remained still as John attempted to dry him to some extent.

"Too good," Sherlock whispered rather despondently. "I could never be good enough for you."

"You're the best man I've ever known." John admitted honestly, though they had both heard him say those same words before, John didn't believe he had ever meant them more than he did in this moment.

"I'm tired, John."

"I know, Sherlock. It's going to be ok," He assured softly, wrapping a towel around Sherlock's hips and laying another across his shoulders, John momentarily gave into the tenderness of that quiet moment and leaned in to press a small kiss to the stubbled curve of Sherlock's jaw.

They shuffled their way down the hall, John managing to all but carry the taller man into the first open bedroom door they came to and maneuvering the lumbering addict into the bed.

"This isn't my room," Sherlock managed sleepily as John pulled the duvet up and over his shoulders.

"It's not? Oh, that's a bit too bad for you now, isn't it? Seeing as how I'll now have to search _your_room from top to bottom so as not to repeat this major cock up." John's words dripped in frustrated sarcasm.

Sherlock nestled further into the blankets. "You're disappointed."

"Just getting that, are you?" John had moved away to relocate the waste bin to Sherlock's bedside. He knew once the younger man started coming down, it was not going to be a pleasant experience and having the bin close might minimize the mess later.

Doctor Watson mode once again engaged, he made mental notes of what to expect in the coming hours and how to prepare for them. Some water at Sherlock's bedside was needed; he hoped the med kit Mycroft had mentioned contained some form of anti-emetic as dehydration could be a major concern since he was unaware of the last time Sherlock might have drunk something, let alone eaten.

He was pulled from his list-making when he felt Sherlock slip his hand into his own. John'seyes fell to where Sherlock's pale, slender hand lay in the palm of John's before looking to Sherlock who peeked at him over the edge of his blanket, all big eyes in a too-pale face, looking so unbearably young and heartbreakingly _lost._

"I'm sorry."

John cleared his throat and nodded once as he gently brushed the hair back from Sherlock's forehead, careful of the still painful looking contusion there. Sherlock's eyes slid closed with a sigh, his head following the movement of John's hand as if to prolong the contact between them. The innocence of the action caused something in John's throat to tighten painfully. "Rest, now," he managed to choke out before turning on his heel and all but fleeing the room.

John collapsed against the closed door at his back, slipping to the floor, as his tears started to fall. He folded up on himself and his cheeks were wet before he could rest his forehead to his drawn-up knees.


	10. Chapter 10

On the floor, still propped against Sherlock's door, John awoke to the sounds of Sherlock retching. Any soldier worth his salt was accustomed to sleeping rough, and ingrained along with that was the ability to wake instantly and at full alert at any given moment. While John retained the latter ability he now found where the soul was willing, the flesh was indeed weak with the former as he groaned and slowly got to his feet. He hadn't intended to nod off, but the fatigue of stress was a very powerful motivator. The darkened hallway wasn't such a surprise once he saw it was past seven, after a quick glance at his watch. He had kipped for much longer than he had thought.

Making his way through the quiet house, he prioritized quickly, finding a sort of stabilizing comfort in knowing what he was in for with Sherlock for the next few hours. First things first: tea. In the kitchen he clicked the kettle on and steadfastly ignored the bomb-cum-files still lying on the table as he gathered cups, spoons and a tray to carry back to Sherlock's bedside, along with an over-large glass of water, a few plain wafers (he wasn't certain how much Sherlock's stomach would tolerate at present, but he himself was starving; either way, they wouldn't go to waste) and a bottle of paracetamol that he found on the counter next to the sink.

He found a small, well-used tea pot in the dish drainer on the counter and gave a passing thought to the lovely parents of Sherlock. John genuinely liked the elder couple and remained gobsmacked that such an unassuming pair had produced the two enigmatic children that they had. The thought tacked another query to the long list of inquiry John had in mind when Sherlock was once again sober.

With an inward groan, that thought triggered the reminder that he needed to clear away the remains of Sherlock's folly in the bathroom and to give a thorough search of his room, just as soon as he figured out which one it was. Until the two came to some kind of understanding and were able to find some footing in the trust that they had once so easily shared, Sherlock was not going to leave John's sight. If he could hide something as foul as heroin in his parent's home, there was nothing he would put past the detective. And, that the fact was such an unpleasant surprise to John,_now_, after all that Sherlock had done since faking his death, was a shock.

As the tea steeped, John located the medical kit in the corner of the sitting room, a large, multi-drawered cabinet familiar in John's line of work. He found it far better equipped than most A&E's he had worked in, which wasn't surprising since it_had_been furnished by the head of the British government in service of attending to said head's baby brother. There were bags of IV fluids to treat dehydration and IV antibiotics to treat possible infection. He happily noted the presence of anti-emetics, which were certainly needed; he pocketed a multi-dose vial and several syringes to take upstairs. He was relieved to find medications that would ease Sherlock's transition through detox. Upon spying the non-narcotic pain relievers, a sardonic smile twisted one side of John's mouth as he noted that none of the remaining meds Mycroft had seen fit to provide would be attractive to a recovering drug addict. Rounding out the more than adequate supplies were a pulse oximeter, a blood pressure cuff, stethoscope, and sitting innocently on top, like the terrifying jewel in the crown- a portable defibrillator, the presence of which caused a cold chill to run up the back of John's neck.

The sight of it sent him back to those terrifying moments, months earlier, when John had found Sherlock lying, shot, on the floor of Magnussen's office, and the subsequent long and painful recovery he had had to endure. It was a time that John tried desperately_not_to think about, as the guilt was crippling, knowing that Mary was to blame. The entire scenario was a bitter pill for John to swallow and remained difficult still. His reconciliation with Mary, at Sherlock's unlikely and surprising insistence, remained tenuous, and John struggled with the burden of that guilt.

However, now was not the time to become mired in that endless angsting loop of remorse and John found himself familiarly, once more, pushing it all to the back of his mind and focusing on the task at hand. He gathered all the supplies he had acquired, precariously piled them onto the tea tray and made his way slowly back up the stairs to the man to whom he owed more than he could ever repay.

John's stomach churned in sympathy as he reached the top of the stairs as he heard the sounds of Sherlock's distress, which sounded as if he were trying to turn himself inside out. There was a flash of empathy cast in the direction of the younger man from John, but the tiniest part of him was a wee bit gleeful that the repercussions of such epic stupidity, e.g., using drugs, had such heinous repercussions.

The last thing drug-addict Sherlock Holmes needed was an easy out. And while that kind of thinking might be a bit not good for John Watson, MD, for John Watson, best friend to the world's only consulting detective, it was a bit all right.

Picking his way across the dark room, John managed to sit the tray on the table at Sherlock's bedside without toppling anything into the floor. He switched on the small lamp there and was immediately answered by a low complaining moan from the lump of blankets on the bed.

John ignored the whinging. "Do you think you could drink something for me?"

The answer to this was a distinct growl.

"Right then. Probably not a good idea at the moment since, by the sound of it, you've just left your spleen lying in the bottom of the rubbish bin." A quip by John at Sherlock's expense was usually answered with a low chuckle in that resonating and improbable baritone of Sherlock's that so mystified John, the mere sound of which would send an echo of reverberating warmth flooding through John's chest. The lack of such a sound now left John a bit bereft. He ignored the chilly effect as he retrieved the blood pressure cuff and placed the stethoscope around his neck.

"Turn over and let me check you out and then I'll give you something for the nausea. We'll worry about hydrating you when I'm certain you can keep something down." He stood over Sherlock on the bed but the detective made no move to cooperate. "Don't be a child, Sherlock. Turn over."

"Go away, John," he rasped, his voice rough and raw from a combination of sleep and the vomiting.

"Nope. Not going to happen, now over you get." John reached for his shoulder, pulling him onto his back.

Sherlock growled again. "For God's sake," he pulled his arms out and slammed them onto the blanket like a petulant child, defiant but resigned. "Just get on with it."

"Ta, very much," John countered, the_scritch_of Velcro loud in the quiet room as John none-too-carefully ripped the cuff open before placing it around Sherlock's upper arm. Placing the ear tips of the stethoscope in place, John leaned in low, and moved to position the diaphragm against his brachial pulse, when he stopped short and was rewarded with a heavy sigh.

"I_am_an IV drug user,_doctor_, I should hardly think you would be surprised to realize what that would entail." Sherlock had been staring at the ceiling, had been studiously ignoring John's actions, so John was surprised that he had even noticed John had paused.

It couldn't be helped. John_knew_what to expect, had seen plenty of the traces of drug abuse on too many patients to count; on soldiers in the field; members of Sherlock's homeless network. But, seeing the fresh track marks of too many recent injections alongside the red and angry welts from scratching (itching, John thought,, was one of the more unattractive side-effects of opiate abuse) along the pale expanse of Sherlock's otherwise unblemished forearm, it just stopped him cold. The most brilliant man he had_ever_known and this,_this,_is what he chose to do to himself. It was so absurdly_ignorant_that it made John's blood boil.

"What the fuck, Sherlock? Why would you do this? Can you explain it to me, because I honestly don't understand." John berated as he put the instrument to Sherlock's abused skin and began pumping the cuff. "For a bloody genius, you can be such an idiot."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Why are you even_here_, John? My lifestyle is obviously upsetting to you, so why bother?"

John barked out a harsh and bitter laugh. "Lifestyle? Lifestyle is it now?" He yanked the cuff from Sherlock's arm before angrily grabbing for Sherlock's wrist to take his pulse. "And, why do I bother? That's a fucking good question at the moment."

His pulse was fast and weak, the flutter of a butterfly's wings beneath John's fingertips, on the delicate wrist he held. Sherlock yanked his hand away as soon as John had relinquished his hold.

"I guess Mary's not the only one to sneak things by you."

"Nope. No. We are_not_doing this." John pulled the stethoscope from around his neck and flung it across the room.

Sherlock's laugh was low and dark, menacing, and a perfect match to the hateful mood he was in. "Ah, so Mary's off-limits, is she?"

"Yeah, nice observation, that one."

Sherlock's brow rose in disdain.

"I know what you're doing. I know_you,_Sherlock. And, that's why I know you weren't up to_this_, you weren't. Not then. Not when we were-"

"When we were 'what', John?" Sherlock inquired bitterly.

"Flatmates," he managed, though Sherlock's insinuating tone brought him up short. "You couldn't have hidden it from me. Mainlining fucking_heroin_. No. There's no way you could have hidden that from me."

"Of course not, because no one_ever_gets anything by good old_Dr. Watson._A junkie best friend. An assassin wife-"

"Jesus, shut up, you bloody hateful prick."

Sherlock pulled the blanket back up around his bare shoulders and turned away from John. "Go home to the little wife, John. You've fulfilled your Hippocratic oath and I certainly don't need a soldier to stand guard over me."

John was scorched by the heat and vehemence of Sherlock's bitter words and there was little comfort to be found in the knowledge that the drugs in his system were to blame.

"Another fact you've obviously_deleted,_but physicians in the UK don't actually swear to the Hippocratic oath, so I'm more than comfortable with cuffing your sorry arse, Sherlock. Don't test me." He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes in thwarted frustration, sagging into the chair next to the bed. "Is that what you want? Because I'll do it, I'll leave. All you have to do is tell me."

The petulant shrug of a blanket clad shoulder was his only answer.

"You are such a child," John sighed despondently. "Right. Ok, glad that's settled. I'm not leaving, so you can put that out of your head."

"I don't need your pity-"

"Pity? You think that's what this is?"

"What else would it be?" Sherlock bit off angrily, rolling over and onto his back once again.

"Unbelievable."

"Is it?"

"Yes!" John shouted, "It bloody well is!"

"Then_explain_it to me."

John sighed wearily, muttering, "God," in exhaustion as he scrubbed his hand over his face.

Silence filled the space between them, but inside John's head, the clamor of a million thoughts was deafening. Some moments passed before John managed to catch the thread of one in the multitude as it screamed through his frontal cortex.

"Did you mean any of the things you said at the wedding?"

No answer, but he could see Sherlock twitch and stiffen in the bed, surprised with the direction John had taken.

"Obviously not," John answered hopelessly. "Another one of your bloody tricks-"

"No." Sherlock interjected, but refused to offer anything more.

"Must have been, since this is what you get up to the moment I'm not paying attention."

More silence that just pushed John's buttons even further.

"But, I was paying attention this time, Sherlock. I always pay attention-"

John heard Sherlock take a breath to assert an acerbic reply, but John cut him off before he could manage. "No, I do. I do. Always. I_told_you at that air park, I wanted to help. I was there, all weekend, Sherlock, waiting, waiting for you like I always do, at your beck and call. All_weekend_, texting, practically begging, fucking_pleading_with you to let me help you, but no. The great bloody Sherlock Holmes doesn't need_anyone_..."

"_Hell,_" Sherlock groaned, sitting up in agitation. "I've_told_you, alone is what-"

"Don't you dare fucking say that to me. I've heard that from you once too many times in my bloody life, so fuck you."

Sherlock's head tilted in that reptilian way that always left John cold. "What would you have done? To help?"

"_Jesus_, you're my best friend, Sherlock. What_wouldn't_I have done?" He cleared his throat, taking a deep breath. His hands were shaking and his fist clenched over and over, the anger and agitation desperately searching for release. "Don't you know? How can you not_get it?_"

John's eyes locked onto Sherlock's, searching those beryl depths for any sign of understanding.

Quietly, as if it were his last hope of finding that long-lost connection with Sherlock, John queried, "Wouldn't you do all in your power for the most important person in your life?"

John froze the instant the words were out, knew his mistake when Sherlock's head snapped back as though struck, his shocked expression locked on John's face.

Like cards shuffling into place, the realization struck John square in the chest and he felt the shame and regret and guilt pile heavy onto him. John's vision tunneled as the onslaught of memory suddenly bombarded him with a truth he had been too blind to see.

Hadn't Sherlock done more than any one person could have ever been expected to do?

"_Your friends will die." "John?"_

"_This is my note. It's what people do, don't they?"_

_The fluttering of a coat, like broken wings; the sickening thud of flesh on blood-stained pavement._

"Please. Forgive me."

_Wedding planning. Serviettes._

"_I can solve your murder, but it takes John Watson to save your life."_

"It's always you, John Watson, you keep me right."

A_beautiful, mournful violin solo._

"_You'll hardly need me around, what with a real baby on the way."_

"_You chose her."_

"_I'm a high-functioning sociopath. Merry Christmas!" "Tell Mary she's safe."_

"_...there's something I should say. I've meant to say, always..."_

-For the most important person in his life.

John came back online with a gasp and he knew Sherlock had seen every one of those thoughts play across his mind because what little color was left promptly leached from Sherlock's face. It broke John's heart to see that look, the same look from the night of the wedding. That unguarded, longing, loving, once-hopeful, miserable, resigned look Sherlock had no chance to hide in the face of recognizing his lack of place in the scheme of John's new life.

John had had to turn away from the anguish of it. His cowardice and inability to deal with emotion of that magnitude forced him to push it from his mind. Forced him to look at the woman he had_just_married and pray, against all hope of believing it, that he hadn't just made the biggest mistake of his life, that the stone sitting in the pit of his stomach would somehow be eased if he just soldiered on.

But it wasn't.

It hadn't.

John reeled, stumbling to his feet in a rush.

Sherlock Holmes loved John Watson.

"John," his voice was low, rough, soft; eyes red-rimmed and shining in the low light and John backed away as if he was afraid to turn his back on the stranger in the bed, tripping over his own feet as he edged toward the door.

"It's late," it wasn't, not even close. "I'm exhausted," no truer words had even been spoken. "If you want...if you need," oh,_hell._

Sherlock stared at him, that horrible look of desolation still burning in his tear-bright eyes before he blinked slowly, and suddenly it was gone and John was sadder than he had ever been in his life, and that was an impossible thought.

John had watched Sherlock_die_, had mourned him for_years_, but that loss seemed negligible in comparison to this. This_something_in Sherlock's eyes, that John was terrified to name, that Sherlock had just slammed the door on. It felt so_final_and John wasn't sure he wanted to think about how that made him feel.

"Yeah, um," he cleared his throat, "I'll be down the hall, just yell, or something. The, uh, um, we'll start the detox regimen in the morning. 'Night."

Sherlock answered with sullen silence as he slowly turned his back to John.

In the fog of John's confusion, he managed to remember to leave the door open on his way out so he could hear if Sherlock called out in the night before making his way to the loo. He was on auto-pilot, his motions mechanical and automatic as he cleared from the bathroom the debris Sherlock had left in his wake._How could this happen?_He took the bar of soap from the shower, shoving the needle-end of the syringe into it before wrapping the whole thing with toilet tissue to secure it before tossing it._When had it happened?_He probably should have found an empty plastic water bottle to dispose of the sharp safely, but decided this improvisation would just have to make do since he lacked the energy at present to scavenge the house for something suitable._Why had Sherlock never_said_anything?_This he tossed into the bin by the sink along with the spoon certain Mrs. Holmes wouldn't want it back. _How could John not have seen it?_The remnants of drug were hastily flushed down the toilet, it's wrapping tossed, the tidy bundle of the bag tied off for John to remove to the outside bins in the morning.

He managed to rehang the rod and shower curtain and looked longingly, just for a second, at the tub. A hot shower would be lovely but he was just too tired to think he could manage, but he knew that wasn't the reason his eyes lingered on it now. Holding Sherlock there earlier, his arms recalled the warm, wet weight of Sherlock's own wrapped around him; the humidity, not from the water in the tub, but from Sherlock's warm breath against his neck; the comfort those long moments had supplied didn't just apply to Sherlock, but to John as well. That quiet cocoon had held more peace for him than anything since Sherlock's fall.

The realization terrified John.

Without conscious thought, he had the light off and was in the hall once more, he stopped in front of the room Sherlock was in, dark as a cave so that John couldn't even manage to see the outline of Sherlock in the bed and fervently hoped he managed to get some sleep.

John turned and opened the door to the room directly across the hall, and searched along the wall until he found the switch, with a_snick_and a swoop of his stomach, the light illuminated the space and John knew instantly it was Sherlock's old bedroom. Who else would have a life-size fully-articulated skeleton standing sentry in the corner? John briefly wondered why only Billy now decorated the mantel of 221B, until he remembered how long it had finally taken Mrs. Hudson to stop displacing the skull when Sherlock had agitated her. She would have been horrified to walk in one morning, delivering biscuits, to find this fellow's hollow-eyed gaze following her through-out the flat.

John examined the rest of the room, taking in the tableau of possessions of a younger Sherlock Holmes. It contained all the things he had come to associate with the consulting detective: microscope; too many books to count; stacks of papers and bits of ephemera pinned and taped and strung onto a large cork board. It was the controlled chaos that was the style mark of Sherlock Holmes and it made John ache with a kind of melancholy he couldn't put into words.

Taking it all in, getting just this tiny glimpse at a Sherlock_before_he had known him was bittersweet, because John was going to have to go through with all of it with a fine-toothed comb. Tomorrow. Yes, definitely tomorrow, because right now? He didn't think he could possible make the five steps that would get him to the bed.

But, he did, somehow, and undressed, down to his pants and t-shirt before pulling back the slate grey duvet and sliding in against the cool sheets. John's mobile lay on the bedside table where he had placed it before undressing, and he used it now to set an alarm to wake him periodically through the night. Heroin was a depressant. Mix that with Sherlock's bump to the head, John knew it was important to monitor his breathing and heart rate throughout the night.

But the presence of the phone now portended to something John wasn't ready to face, it's normal use and function was like a foghorn blaring at him in the quiet room. He really should contact Mary.

His wife. The mother of his child.

Noting the time as a little past nine, he scrubbed his hands across his face, attempting to wipe away some of the guilt he felt (hopeless), trying to erase some of revelations he had uncovered (impossible) and get in the right frame of mind to talk to his wife. To be honest, it was the last thing he wanted to do at the moment, and that thought was too alarming to reconcile, but, his mind was whirling, he was confused and frustrated and, honestly, just a little bit scared about what any of the day's insights meant to him and what they said about him. John had obligations, though, and he'd do well to remember those now. So, with a sigh, he pulled up the number, pushing send as he slowly raised the phone to his ear, not certain where to lay the blame for the wave of dread that filled him as the call started to ring through.

"John?" Came the sleepy voice after the second ring.

"Sorry, I woke you," John apologized guiltily.

"I was just dozing, s'ok." He heard shuffling down the line, imagined her trying to move around, to get comfortable with the burden of her pregnant belly. "Are you on your way home?"

"No," he cleared his throat. "I'm actually out of town. Well, we're-"

"Out of town? With Sherlock? You didn't say you were going to be leaving town." Her tone was accusatory.

"Well, I didn't know we would be, when I texted you earlier."

Her scoff was harsh. "Of course you didn't know." She hissed. "And, thanks much, you could have told me when it became apparent,_before_you even left."

John hated when she was sarcastic with him. "I didn't really have a chance, things have been a bit...dicey." He remained vague.

"Where are you? Is this to do with Moriarty? Have you found him?" She demanded.

John was really wishing he had just texted her instead. "I really can't say." He didn't_want_to say, didn't want her to know.

"You're just so forthcoming-"

"Don't give me that." John nearly barked, quickly becoming fed up her sneering. "You know I can't say anything."

"What? Not even to your_wife?_Hello, that would be_me._" She jumped in. "You leave town before letting your_pregnant_wife know and I'm supposed to just be ok with that? What if something were to_happen?_"

Was that some kind of threat or was John just being too sensitive? "Oh, please, don't give me that. You_are_a former_assassin,_so you don't get to play the 'poor, pitiful me' card, here. You're not some helpless 'little wife'."

He hears her hiss in a breath on the other end of the line and he immediately regrets the words.

"Sorry. I'm sorry." He offers quickly. "Look, it's been a long day and I'm tired and I don't mean to take it out on you. I'll be home in a couple of days." He sighs. "I'll let you know when." He adds on.

"A couple of days?_We_have a doctor's appointment on Wednesday." She reminds him coldly. "I need you home, John, not running around playing Bond-"

"Yeah, I know. I'll do my best to be there." She sighs heavily. "I'm sorry. I'll do what I can, ok? And, this is_not_playing. You of all people should know that."

There's a bark of bitter laughter in response. "Whatever, John."

"Yeah. Ok. Goodnight. I'll talk to you tomorrow. Get some rest."

"Yeah, you, too." The line clicks dead.

John falls back on the bed with an irritated groan.

"_Shit._" That had not gone well, at all. Why the_fuck_did he not just text her, for Christ's sake?

And, there it was again. All John's fault. He knew he hadn't been in the right frame of mind to talk with her just now, but he had gone and done it anyway. Now she was pissed instead of just being put out with him._Jesus,_he was an idiot.

With a heavy sigh, he blindly reached out, placing the mobile back on the table without looking, his stare focused on the blank expanse of ceiling above his head. With his arms tucked behind his head, he tried to still the racing thoughts in his head. He was bone-tired and mentally fatigued, but felt he was far from being able to get to sleep. He lay there, his body tense with a kernel of frustration he couldn't pinpoint in the shit-pile of information he'd been inundated with in the last twelve hours. And, calling Mary, the person that should have been his haven of comfort and solace in times of trouble, had done nothing to alleviate his inner turmoil and he didn't know how to feel about that or how to make sense of what that meant.

His best friend lay in the other room, coming down from a days-long high, ending John's own days of worry and the one person he should have been able to turn to for reassurance and support, his wife, was the last person he wanted right now. He felt guilty for that, he did, but he couldn't help it. It just_was._

They had only just reconciled, Christmas merely a few short weeks ago, and he knew it was going to take time. Time to get to a place where he could look at her and not_remember_Sherlock on the floor, bleeding from the gunshot wound she had put in his chest. Time to forget Magnussen's hateful taunts about the people he could call down on Mary, to end Mary and destroy the life John had now.

His fists found his hair, pulling in frustration as the hell his recent life had turned into played like a movie across his inner eye. But, it wasn't such a recent happening at all, though, was it? It had all gone pear-shaped with one final phone call from a roof top that had ended two lives with one selfish jump.

No.

_No._

It wasn't so black and white now; the _why_of Sherlock's fall and the implication of what it meant to the two men and what _more_was or could have been between them. But, then again, it never had been. Not between _them. _Being forced to watch Sherlock plummet to his death had been heartless and painful to the point of cruelty and had destroyed John in a way not even war had managed to accomplish. Whereas he had been broken and in despair upon his return from Afghanistan, Sherlock's demise had compounded that feeling with the addition of guilt and the hollowness of _what if._

But could he say it had been a selfish act now? With all John now knew, that he had not been allowed to be privy to during the chaos of _the game _between Moriarty and Sherlock, after hearing that recording of Sherlock's final 'moments' and the horror of now understanding John's own safety had been a catalyst to Sherlock hurdling himself from that roof to _protect John_, could he still say that Sherlock had been selfish in his actions?

His mind recalled Sherlock's yearning expression from earlier and couldn't bear the thought of it. Because, if he thought...if he thought about it and everything since that fateful moment at St. Bart's that Sherlock Holmes had done in the name of love...for John Watson the guilt and shame and_longing_would eat him alive.


	11. Chapter 11

Calm and quiet. Too quiet, really, that was the unnerving problem. It was too still, the house around him silent as a tomb. Somewhere in the house, distant and forlorn, a clock struck three chimes, a harbinger, a call to arms that John heeded without reserve. From the time, he knew he had only managed to sleep for a short while after his last check on a sleeping and undisturbed Sherlock, so it wasn't his alarm that now brought him to wakefulness, but a distinct, ingrained vigilance that years of Army service had imbedded in his psyche and the subsequent years of inactive duty had failed to undermine. Something was amiss in the silence, danger lurked, soundless in it's oppression, leaving John on a deep-seated and hard-fought high alert.

His head shifted slowly, silently on the pillow, his breath calm, as he searched the darkness of the room. Cursing silently, he wished in vain that he had thought to bring his gun and immediately admonished himself, remembering that his day had started as nothing extraordinary. The mundane of his usual Monday mornings sans Sherlock Holmes made no requirements on him to be armed. Why hadn't he discussed security with Mycroft earlier? Surely, the government official had the house under surveillance? The man lived to keep Sherlock under his thumb and now with the possibility of Moriarty's return, Mycroft had to have the house under constant guard with a contingency plan in place if their location happened to be compromised. But, as reasonable as those assumptions seemed, John knew none of this for certain, and if the past few years had taught John Watson anything, it was that he took nothing for granted.

_Damn it !_

John's mind raced, a grip of fear for Sherlock, lying in the next room, unguarded, drugged; it was paramount that John get to him. It was his_job_to protect Sherlock. John had failed him before … had failed to see what was happening right in front of his eyes, Moriarty's_games,_the lengths Sherlock went to protect; to_win._No, John Watson would not fail Sherlock Holmes this time.

Recalling the layout of the room he was in, John tried to pinpoint and imagine anything in the room that could be used as a weapon that was within his reach. He shifted slightly in the bed, silently sliding the cover from his body, readying himself for combat, and listening for sounds of struggle or movement from across the hall. A sick sort of desperation to make certain Sherlock was unharmed bloomed a cold sweat across his body. Then there was a subtle shift in the empty darkness to the right of the door.

John's body tensed, his left foot finally slipping free of the sheet; the last barrier between himself and the menace that hovered by the door. The instant his mind issued the order for his body to attack, it was already too late, as the darkness shifted and exploded in a rush of movement as John was tackled to the bed.

It was a mad flurry of blind punches, both combatants struggling in the near dark, finding their targets only by the hiss of feral growls and stuttered breaths. John managed several glancing blows between direct hits, suffering his own in the madness of the attack. One solid hit to John's solar plexus left him breathless but his recoil sent his forehead crashing into the others and the momentum of the strike sent them both hurtling onto the floor in a tumble of limbs of a crash of the side table.

They rolled together on impact and before John could recover his breath, his attacker was on him with a roar, legs straddling John's chest and hands like a vice around John's throat. John grabbed at and struggled under his attacker's wrists, his hands pulling and clawing, desperately trying to pull them away from his throat. His head battered back and forth, his feet and legs thrashing in vain to roll, to push away, to succeed at any cost but the more he struggled the tighter his assailants grip became. John refused to yield, until the man above him spoke, his voice harsh and rough.

"I_told_you I would kill you." Sherlock growled, low, vicious, making John's blood run cold. "You thought it would be enough to stop me? Letting your men play before they took care of me?" The words made John's blood run cold and the fear of what he was hearing made him redouble his efforts to break free of Sherlock's maniacal grasp. "I took care of them, too quickly for what they deserved, butI'm going to take my time with you. Make certain you'll be fucking sorry you didn't listen to me." Sherlock's voice was a savage hiss against John's ear and his hands somehow squeezed even tighter against John's throat.

John could feel his lips going numb and knew, were he able see, that the room would be dimming. His head felt fit to burst, his lungs were screaming for breath. Sherlock was killing him.

Killing him.

Killing him.

In a last ditch attempt to break free before he lost consciousness, John's hands reached blindly at the floor around him. His fingers grazed something, just barely, he stretched, reached, prayed as his fingers circled around the object, lifting it, finding it had heft, and swinging it with all that he had left in him. It came down across Sherlock's head at an odd angle, but with enough force to knock the detective to the side. The blow caused Sherlock's hands to slip enough, just enough, for John to squeeze in a painful breath before choking out the only thing he could manage: "Sherlock."

John's not certain if it's the blow to the head or hearing John's voice that did it, but Sherlock has frozen with a gasp and a shudder, the movement enough to allow John to roll to his stomach. He lifted himself on trembling arms, gasping and wheezing, coughing and choking for a gulp of air.

"John," Sherlock whispered, desperate. "John," he whinged, his voice breaking at the end.

John shook his head and held out a hand, hoping to stop Sherlock's spiral into the guilt John could hear in his voice. "It's-" He struggled, the words raw and choked, "It's ok, Sherlock."

John found the object he had struck Sherlock with, a lamp that had been knocked from the table at the beginning of their skirmish. He clicked it on, righting it on the floor to his side. The shade had been knocked off but the exposed bulb was low wattage so the light was not too glaring as it illuminated the anguished scene.

Sherlock sat, naked, rocking on the floor, with his knees drawn to his chest, and his head resting against them with his hands buried deep in his hair. The muscles of his arms strained from the force of the double handfuls pulling at it, painfully, from the root. John could hear him muttering to himself, but it was too low to make out, something twisted, deep, and agonizing. It made John miserable to see Sherlock like that; rocking himself, pulling at his hair, his shoulders hunched...his shoulders-

"Christ," John rasped, clearing his raw throat, moving quickly to Sherlock's side. His hand reached out to touch one of the many long, thin scars that criss-crossed Sherlock's shoulders. "Oh, God. Oh, Jesus. Sherlock." He whispered in apprehension, the reality of what those scars meant, what they showed Sherlock had endured...

Sherlock reeled at the touch and fell back on his hands, scrabbling, frightened, away from John. His eyes were wild, wide, and red-rimmed. Haunted. John's breath caught in his chest because he knew that look, though he never_saw_it himself. But, he knew it all too well. Intimately. Personally. He had suffered it, too often, after his own nightmares and panic of a PTSD episode.

A sob caught in John's throat and he held out a trembling hand. "Sher-" He coughed, the word catching in his raw throat. He tried again. "Sherlock."

Sherlock looked at him, blinked, his head tilted as if recognizing the word or the sound and then he blinked again and his eyes widened as he gasped before he broke. "No." Sherlock closed his eyes, squeezing them shut as tears edged from the corners in fat drops that made sad trails down his cheeks. "No," he moaned. "No, no, no, nonononono." an endless rasping monologue of the word uttered plaintively as Sherlock suddenly rushed forward, on his knees, barreling into John and throwing his arms around John's chest and buried his head against John's stomach. That one word fell, brokenlyfrom his lips, spilling with his tears, and soaking the tee shirt John wore.

John clutched the trembling, sobbing man to him. He enveloped the narrow shoulders, his hands grasping tightly to the sweat-slick skin of Sherlock's back. Under his fingers, John could feel scars, the hateful, raised flesh of the tragedies Sherlock had suffered but he refused to look at them. John knew their meaning; the why of their presence on the once smooth expanse of skin. They were the result and painful representation of Sherlock's time … away. Those years John had believed him dead and, there was undeniable proof that Sherlock could have so easily been. John mourned again with the notion. He mourned for the man he knew Sherlock had once been, and how very far away he was from that person now.

John bent forward, curling his body protectively around Sherlock, pressing his face to Sherlock's hair, his lips to the top of his head. He felt Sherlock's hands at his back, fisting the material of the shirt even tighter, holding to John as if his life depended on it. John responded in kind, understanding just how much Sherlock needed this, to anchor himself, to understand he wasn't alone. John found himself easily responding in kind.

"It's ok, Sherlock," John whispered against Sherlock's scalp. "I've got you. I've got you." His hands caressed and eased along Sherlock's back in time with his words, his lips pressed in fierce reassurance to the top of Sherlock's head. "You're not alone. I'm here. I'm here, Sherlock."

Eventually, the strength and force of Sherlock's sobs ebbed under John's compassion and gentle words. Sherlock raised his head, his tear-stained face beautifully heartbreaking. "I'm sorry." His fingers trembled as he reached up to John's throat, skimming the red marks left there in painful reminder. "I'm so sorry. I didn't … I thought-"

"Shh," John hushed, as he gently maneuvered Sherlock's hand away. "I know."

Sherlock's eyes darted away, shaking his head in terse disagreement.

"I_do,_Sherlock._I_know wh-"

Sherlock turned away with a groan, his hands once again twisting into his hair. It was like he was trying to hold himself together the only way he knew how.

"But, I hurt you. I hurt_you_. John. The last person- oh, God. The_last_person I want to ever..." he choked out and began rocking again, caught in the tailspin of his guilt.

John was at a loss, his heart breaking, pounding in sympathy for the anguish he saw Sherlock suffering from now. He hastily shoved the painful realisation that Sherlock was nearly two years out since his return and the obvious traumas he had suffered; to know that he was still suffering at this level. John swallowed hard at the thought.

He didn't know how to be on this side of a situation like this. John wasn't known to be the warmest or most insightful person, nor was he adept in offering comfort or empathy, but this was Sherlock, his best friend. There was nothing that would keep John from supporting him, in anyway he could.

Noting the fine tremor that ran through Sherlock's arms and the minute twitch of the individual muscles of his calves and thighs, John was reminded of the coolness of the room and the nakedness of Sherlock's body. Hoping to relieve, at least, Sherlock's chill if nothing else, John pulled the duvet from the bed and wrapped it snugly around Sherlock's bent frame. He sat, cross-legged, facing Sherlock, his hands briskly rubbing Sherlock's arms in a pathetic attempt to warm the man with the friction of the motion.

There was no sound in the room but for the scratch of John's palms over the soft cotton of the blanket held tightly around Sherlock and the low, hiccup-y sniffs as Sherlock calmed. The house was silent, no noise from outside, no traffic or occasional loud voice carrying across the cold January air. The lightfrom the lamp was dim, muted, and soft, adding to the other-worldly feeling that enveloped the two of them. The world outside ceased to exist, to even matter, and in that cocoon of warm, familiar silence, it was just the two of them.

Sherlock and John.

The way it always had been. The way it always_should_have been. The way John had dreamed. The way Sherlock had longed -

Without thought but heavy with resignation, John leaned forward, pressing his eyes tightly shut as he touched his forehead to Sherlock's. "A word," John barely managed to whisper and he felt the tiniest jolt from Sherlock in response. John would have smiled any other time to have caught the detective off-guard. It was, after all, a rare occurrence to be able to surprise Sherlock Holmes, but John had done it with nothing more than that; broaching a topic that Sherlock hadn't seen coming.

"All you would have had to say was one word. Anything to let me know that … that you could feel -"

"Leave it, John." He whispered, shaking his head desperately, his forehead rocking back and forth against John's. Their only point of contact until John clutched Sherlock's hands where they gripped the edges of the duvet draped over his chest.

But, he couldn't leave it. Not now. Not after today. Not after finding his best friend back on drugs; not after hearing Moriarty's taunting, threatening voice; and not after watching best friend kill someone to protect his family. Not after he watched his best friend help plan and then stand up with him at his wedding, putting his own heart aside as he watched John marry someone else. And not after _hearing_John's fervent prayer that he_stop being dead_...

John shuddered as the rush of proof and the truth he had so long denied, ceased being merely wishful thinking and became the status quo John had long denied.

"Stop it. Stop it." Sherlock ground his forehead against John's in frustration.

Of course. Of course, Sherlock could deduce what John was_thinking._No one could hide from Sherlock Holmes, least of all, John Watson. But, that wasn't entirely true, was it? There were things- shadowy things; hints of things; things only allowed to surface under the veil of moonlight, alone in his bed, away from the all-knowing scrutiny of a verdigris gaze; things that John had thought long dead and forever reconciled, never acted upon and unrequited. The thought turned the corner of John's mouth up wryly.

"For God's sake. I said leave it! What good does any of this do? What does it matter? It doesn't matter, John. It doesn't. It can't. . . And, you're wrong. On all accounts. You've got it wrong," Sherlock's words came hard and fast and he struggled to breathe.

John just let him wind himself up, let him get it out. It was like a plaster; rip it off quickly, in one fell swoop, and let the air to the wound. He wasn't certain how it would heal after the fact. Would the scar fade over time, just a blemish that, when noticed, only hinted at the pain the initial injury had caused? Or would it heal as a jagged, angry red line, disfiguring, forever painful and an agonizing reminder of the suffering he silently endured, but had always unknowingly shared in counterpart?

John sighed, the silence of the room and reassuring pressure of Sherlock's head against his own, John's hands still wrapped around Sherlock's, to provide a respite and allow Sherlock the moments of calm he needed to regroup and come to terms with all John was not saying. Or, that's what John told himself. That those quiet, silent minutes - bent together, hands entwined, knees touching, slowly melting closer to one another, without conscious effort on either part, their breaths mingling - it was all for Sherlock's benefit and had nothing whatsoever to do with John's inexplicable and undeniable desire to forget the misery and deceit and the lies that had brought them to this point;John's need and anguish to once more be the singular center and focus of the extraordinary man sitting across from him.

Sometimes epiphanies aren't all that sudden. No light bulb magically clicking on, no_tada! _moment stopping you dead in your tracks with all the subtlety of a cricket bat to the head. Sometimes it's a slow and winding road, a meandering lane of evermore-elusive clues; sometimes so congested with traffic, the signposts so subtle in their unveiling as to be missed entirely. But, when the roadmap is unfurled, laid on the table before you and you chart your course, step by step, kilometer by kilometer, the way becomes clear and it's obvious that you_will_reach your final destination. Pull right up and park and realize you have arrived at where you were meant to be all along. And once you've made it there, you know there's no way to ever lose your way again.

This was how John's epiphany manifested, its culmination coalescing in that shared silence. John had always thought he could wait Sherlock out. That their closeness, their day-to-day intimacy would become more; a natural progression of the ease and comfort they found in each other's presence. There had been moments, brief glimpses and the effervescent glimmer of that 'something else' between them that everyone constantly commented on, much to John's discomfort and dismay. He was not a publicly demonstrative man, and although he loved, well, love and being in it, he was extraordinarily private about his emotions and desires. It was no one else's business and he had been hard-pressed not to tell everyone who had a comment to fuck off, ta very much. It was no one's business who he was with, what he liked, what he wanted, and he really didn't appreciate people assuming anything when it came to him and, especially, to his sexuality. That was his own business. Because John knew the pitfalls associated with both sides of the fence. A gay sister in a very conservative family? Yeah, that hadn't gone over as well as it should and poor Harry carried the battle scars (and the half-empty vodka bottle) to prove that. And though mates will be mates and everyone can say 'it's all good' and 'whatever floats your boat' on equality issues and gender fluidity and everyone's right to love without restriction, it's another matter entirely when it comes down to it. It's all good until it's not.

So, John did what he had always done and denied the big issue- "I'm not gay"- because it left enough grey area to allow him his privacy and satisfied the naysayers that he had neither the will nor the patience to engage. So those brief moments between he and Sherlock were enough for John to decide to be patient. He knew Sherlock was worth it, well, once you got past the arrogant tit of an outer covering, but John was privy to the private, highly protected side of Sherlock Holmes; moments of unguarded joy, irrepressible childishness, genuine honesty, and as of tonight, a fragility John had never known Sherlock could possess.

What they could have had was worth all the time in the world, and it had seemed, then, that they had all the time they would need. But then Sherlock was dead and John was alone and could never hope to have time with Sherlock again. Christ, how John had wished, hoped, dreamed, after Sherlock's death, that he had forced something, that he had been brave and the man Sherlock had deserved and just stepped up and taken what they had both been too cowardly to reach for.

Why hadn't he tried harder that first night after they had met, at Angelo's, everyone around them assuming they were on a date. It had felt like one. It felt like the best date John had ever been on and John had been so keen in that moment. Jesus, he had wanted Sherlock since that very first moment at Bart's, "Here, use mine."

"You said you were married to your work." John clears his dry, aching throat. "That first night. You said it."

Sherlock startles before settling back in a slow sag, his shoulders drooping forward, the tip of his nose now touching John's as he seems determined to melt in a slow exhale.

"Was that it? Those words, my words, on a night when we didn't even know each other. How could I have known? What you-" His voice broke, mirroring the pain the revelation was having on both of them. "What you would come to mean to me. It was my standard speech to keep people at arm's length, to keep them from questioning me because people and_relationships_we never my area. It was one more tick on the freak metre that I didn't know how to subvert. So, I sidestepped it altogether rather than try and fail as spectacularly as I knew I would."

John closed his eyes, his heart breaking anew at the isolation Sherlock had placed himself under out of fear and the inexperience of an untried heart. He squeezed Sherlock's hands even tighter in his grip hoping somehow to convey the slightest sense of understanding.

Sherlock took a shaking breath. "I said them before I_knew_, John. Before I knew what caring would be like, what love could mean. I didn't know. I didn't_understand_. How could I? How could I know when I have never-" He stopped himself short and John was loathe to fill in the blanks of what Sherlock didn't say.

It was too painful to think.

"I was terrified of you, John. The moment you walked into Bart's, that very_moment_, I was shaken to the core. Scared to death, and for the first time in my life, I had no clue as to what to do."

John scoffs in spite of himself. "You were scared? Of me? An old-before-my-time, invalid basketcase?"

Sherlock groaned his frustration. "Don't be dull. Of course, of you. You walked into that room, you may have been limping, using that stupid bloody cane, but you were commanding. A captain in the fucking army, a war hero, brave; and on top of that? A doctor? How could you not know how amazing you are? How can you not see what I see? What_everyone_sees? How utterly, impossibly heroic and brave and strong-"

"Ok. Ok, don't go overboard." John admonished lightly.

"But, it's all moot now." Sherlock offered, his tone now quietly subdued as he moved back from John, pulling away to rest against the side of the bed. That John instantly missed the contact they had been sharing was an understatement. Sherlock's withdrawal was painful, especially when John could now see the look on his face. Shut down and walls up. The effect was chilling after the closeness they had just been sharing.

"You have Mary."

The name is like a glass of ice water in the face and what is so damning is that John knows all of what Sherlock is not saying- Mary is the same as Sherlock in a physical form that makes everything so much easier for John. Plausible deniability in the face of 'keeping up appearances' in the "no homo" real world that John seems so incapable of denying.

And it's a shameful truth that cuts John to his very core because he now knows what a facsimile it all is. A poor imitation, a copy of what he felt/wanted/needed from Sherlock since the beginning but thought him incapable of supplying. Sherlock knew this, knew John and how he thought and felt, how he could never own-up to his sexuality, not really. So, John's happiness was all he could offer, at the expense of himself. and Mary was the perfect answer. Not Sherlock's perfect answer, but John's.

"I thought if you were happy, it's enough. It's enough."

John couldn't believe what he was hearing. "But it's not enough for you."

"Irrelevant."

John's laugh is harsh and brittle. "In any way, how is your happiness irrelevant? You deserve-"

"Nothing!" Sherlock roared. "After all I've done, I don't even deserve to share the same airspace as you, John. How can you not see that?"

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

Sherlock turned his head away, looking past John with a haunted look. "It doesn't matter." He shook his head and barely whispered, pulling himself back to center with a deep breath and stiffening on his spine that spoke volumes as to what Sherlock was determined to keep hidden from John.

But, John was undeterred. He understood there were things that had happened to Sherlock when he was 'away', things that the young detective was painfully struggling to come to terms with. John was aware of the scars now, knew of the nightmares that now plagued Sherlock's dreams, but he wasn't going to push him. Confrontation wasn't the key to overcoming the psychological trauma that Sherlock was displaying. John was patient. John was his friend and he would be there when Sherlock needed him and felt ready to unburden himself. Until then, he wasn't going to sit idly by and let the detective continue to believe himself unworthy.

This was John Watson, stepping up.

"You're right. It doesn't matter. Nothing you had to do matters, and it doesn't change _you, _Sherlock. I know who _you_are. I _see_you."

Sherlock turned back to him at that, finding his eyes, and searching for a truth he didn't dare seem to believe.

John's smile was soft, his own gaze locking bravely onto the wide verdigris stare that regarded hims so warily. "You told me what you saw, in me, when we first met. You described me like some god damned super hero. It's ridiculous." John rubbed a hand roughly over his face, trying to wipe away some of the embarrassment Sherlock's audacious categorization had left him. "But what you don't know is what I saw, meeting you that first time. Like the prince of St. Bart's, in your perfect bespoke clothes, a fucking walking wet dream, for _anyone_. Beautiful, cultured, and Christ, that voice of your's, Sherlock. It's like a lethal weapon. A proper genius and as clever as they come, to boot? No one can hold a candle to you. Ever. And, that you're so bloody _blind_to your own charms. _When you see fit to employ them,_" he added sotto voce, with a wink. "I'd love to sit down with your parents and try to reason out...to try and come to some kind of understanding as to the _why._Why you don't believe you are worthy of anything other than a grudging respect for you intellect, when there is so much to you, Sherlock. So much."

John stopped abruptly, an unwanted anxiety rushing through his body in a cold wave. It was too much, he had said too much...admitted too much. And there was no going back from any of it once the words had started he had been unable to stop.

Sherlock's unearthly quiet was enough reassurance to that fact and John couldn't help but squirm as if under a microscope. He imagined himself unpleasantly examined, revealing things he wasn't certain he even wanted to know just yet. If ever, but then it's too late for regret, because Sherlock is shaking his head in response.

He had looked down when John halted his monologue but now lifted his head, eyes glassy with unshed tears. "No one's ever," he stopped, swallowed, tried again. "I've never heard anyone describe _me_like that." His voice is barely above a whisper, filled with so much wonderment that John holds his breath, waiting, for something he can't name. "I'm nothing, John. Just a freak. No one's ever...Who could want _me_?"

John swallowed and found it difficult, as if Sherlock's hands were still wrapped there, restricting his breath, squeezing the life from him in measured degrees. But, it wasn't his hands, it was Sherlock's words, his utter _stupidity_in his denial of his own worth.

What wasn't difficult, and John would later speculate on that pivotal moment being the catalyst to all that followed, were the words he whispered in clear, unsubtle and undeniably straightforward words.

"I do."


	12. Chapter 12

_Oh, Christ. Oh, Jesus._ John hadn't meant- _well,_ he _had,_ but maybe not just yet. Maybe, _Jesus,_ maybe he should take a breath, for God's sake, and _think_ about all of this for a fucking second. Wrap his mind around it all. "I mean, I could have. You know, I mean, before, before-"

Hollow laughter was the immediate response to his stuttering and idiotic attempt at backpedaling. John had heard that laughter before; the cold, hard manic edge of laughter that Sherlock usually wielded with lethal clarity against the pathetic idiots he was forced to contend with, day in and day out. The sound pissed John right the hell off, but Sherlock was unfazed by the narrowed glare John blasted in his direction.

"Before _what,_ exactly?" He queried, determined, wrapping the blanket tighter around his body, closing himself off so completely, and so finally. "The domesticity that you have found so very fulfilling?"

"Don't. You don't get to-" John pointed, his finger jabbing at the now-stagnant air between them. He wasn't certain what he meant to say but he knew he was having none of Sherlock's shit. Not now. The lanky detective was not going to snowball this conversation into a detritus of misplaced blame and redirection.

"To what, John? Hm? Really, this is becoming tedious." Sherlock's tone was nasty, his eyes narrowed to slits as he raked John with a cold, impassive glare that would have left bigger men than John Watson trembling in their trainers.

But, John held his ground, back straight and chin up. Sherlock could deduce until his heart's content because there was nothing John Watson could hide, nor wished to, not anymore. His life was a bloody war zone at the moment, but for the first time, in literally _years,_ John was finally beginning to see the forest for the trees.

"What am I supposed to think, John? You're married-"

"You were _gone!_" John cut him off with a shout, unable to stop the assault.

Sherlock's entire demeanor seemed to deflate beneath the weight of John's accusation. "I came back," his retort was low, feeble, and meek in the face of John's ire. Yes, Sherlock had come back, but it had been so late, maybe too late, with John's future course already set and in motion and oh-so far from where Sherlock had left him.

John closed his eyes, the tension in his chest tightening, his words only a whisper, the only response he could surrender, "You were dead."

The silence seemed to shrink; the walls of the room moving in, swallowing the space around them until nothing existed outside the halo of dim light that encased the two of them. No surprise registered from Sherlock's averted gaze as John moved, reaching to the over-tipped table and grabbing the recording device he had retrieved from Sherlock's belongings earlier that day.

But, there was an audible gasp as Sherlock caught sight of what it was as John placed it on the floor between them. Sherlock's hand shot out, stopping John's fingers from pressing 'play'.

"I can't-" Sherlock was adamant, shaking his head. "I don't want to. I don't want to hear it-"

"Ok," John agreed readily, noting the anxiousness of Sherlock's plea. "Yeah. Ok. We don't have to listen to it." He gripped Sherlock's hand in understanding reassurance. "I did, though. Today. Yeah, earlier today, I listened to it. When I found it."

Sherlock pulled his hand away, drawing the blanket tighter around his shoulders as he sat back, letting that information sink in.

_This._ This was the conversation they had silently sworn to never have with one another. After all that time; after Sherlock's death and resurrection; after the contrivance of a forgiveness under the duress of a ticking time bomb; during all the planning of a wedding; endless hours at a hospital bedside; months of anger and confusion; after watching the one person that mattered most commit the heinous crime of murder to protect secrets that may have been better revealed; throughout _all_ of that, this subject had been too hard to broach. Subconsciously, they had both known, if they had ever gone here it would cut too close; would reveal too much. More than either ever dared to speculate and more than either could ever deny.

But, here they were, the physical space between them down to less than a metre, but the figurative space of where their hearts lay was an infinite chasm that neither knew the first step in how to breach.

Sherlock tugged at his hair once again and John tucked away the certain knowledge of this new tic in Sherlock's coping arsenal. A substitute for smoking, perhaps, but John wasn't certain. It was a bittersweet observation for it brought to mind how much of _this_ Sherlock John wasn't privy to anymore.

"You were always so defensive." Sherlock's words were so low John had to strain to hear them. "Always so worried with what people _thought_ about you. About us. _'I'm not his date.' 'We're not like that.' 'Of course we'll be needing two.' 'I'm not gay!'_ The endless parade of women you trotted through the flat."

John grimaced to hear the accusations so blatantly touted and the note of anguish each memory seemed to inflict upon Sherlock still, but the hurt went both ways.

"You were married to your work!" He lashed out before he even thought to do it.

That was the crux of the thing, wasn't it? John had played by the rules, there, in the beginning at Angelo's. But, it was only a game when both teams showed up. They had both been unaware, all this time, that there was one of them that didn't even know he was at bat.

So, with that knowledge, what was John supposed to have thought? Known? Done? When faced with the cold, hard reason that Sherlock held so dear, his constant reminder to anyone that would listen that he was a sociopath, the clear and painfully obvious statement from his very own lips that he didn't _do_ relationships, John pursuing anything of that calibre would have been nothing but fruitless. But Sherlock was, saying that...that _what_?

"You pushed me back to Mary." That wasn't what he had meant to say, but there it was, the fly in the ointment and the action from Sherlock that John still could not reconcile. "After she _shot you._ Christ, Sherlock, my wife shot you and you practically _forced_ me to forgive her. _You._ You made excuse after excuse. Why? Why did you _do_ that?"

"Irrelevant." he snapped with a derisive flick of his wrist.

"What?! How? How is that irrelevant? If you. If you have- _had,_" John quickly corrected because he was finished assuming anything where Sherlock Holmes was concerned. "Feelings, or _something,_ for me. Then, why?" John nudged the recorder with his foot, drawing Sherlock's attention, along with a raised brow. "Not a word. You never said anything, Sherlock." John swallowed, trying to shove down the lump of anguish that was rising. "I said I didn't care about the _how_ of it. How you faked it. But, Christ, Sherlock, the _why._ Don't you see? Didn't you _think_ the why of it would have made all the difference in the world. Before...before it was too late. And, now, there's Mar-"

"_Hell,_" Sherlock ground out, his head falling back against the bed, staring at the ceiling, he sighed heavily, the long column of his throat working as he swallowed, the tension between them marking his body in tight lines and his restraint, that John was beginning to detest, redoubled.

John waited, he wouldn't say patiently, but he gave Sherlock the time he seemed to need, to regain some handle on the emotions neither were too keen, nor too capable, of handling, let alone, expressing.

Sitting there, waiting in that silence, John's body reminded him of the lateness of the hour and the tension of the day with a growing discomfort. He rolled his shoulder in a futile attempt to relieve some of the strain that always manifested first in the gnarled scar of his shoulder. The crunch and pop as the muscles shifted and tendons stretched was loud in the otherwise quiet room and Sherlock jolted his head upright, pinning John with a laser-focused stare.

"For God's sake, get up out of the floor." His tone was disdainful, but his actions spoke of nothing but consideration for John's discomfort as he stood in one smooth, enviable motion, and settled himself across the foot of the bed, back to the wall, feet hanging over the side like an overgrown child. Which was a description John saw as all-too-fitting.

John sighed as the detective merely stared at him expectantly before he finally gave in and got up with a half-stifled groan and an unforgiving twinge of his lower back. He stalled for time, finding the thought of just sitting in bed with Sherlock a little too distracting to contemplate. Righting the bedside table, John replaced the lamp, half-heartedly reattaching the shade before placing his phone and the recorder back on the table. He could feel Sherlock's eyes on him, watching every movement. John knew that Sherlock could _deduce_ that he was stalling which only amped up John's nervousness, but he decided to give up the ghost, and with a clearing of his throat, he got in bed.

He propped a pillow against the wall at the head of the bed, raising a brow at Sherlock and clearing his throat again, almost daring him to say something smart but he, to John's surprise, he remained silent, only watching John's movements with a wide, all-encompassing stare. John settled back, mirroring Sherlock's position, though his legs only barely reached the edge, let alone, hang off any of it. But he quickly blushed, looking down, his legs bare as he was reminded that he was only dressed in pants and t-shirt, and that that thought snowballed into reminding him that Sherlock sat only feet away in nothing, and this wasn't Buckingham Palace.

John quickly pulled the sheet around him.

They settled into the silence that neither seemed eager to breach. John settled against the pillow, his head resting against the wall as his eyes slid closed and his mind wandered. There was so much left unsaid between them, that had been unsaid for far too long. John's voice was low when he began speaking before he realized.

"You hurt me so much. When you fell," he swallowed hard against the choking feeling that arose whenever he thought of that time, and startled when he felt Sherlock's fingers twine with his own. He gripped tightly to that anchoring touch. He kept his eyes closed as he continued, the words coming without thought. "I was shattered. Gutted. Might as well have been the one bloody on the pavement. I died, Sherlock, _died,_ the day you jumped. Then there was Mary." John stuttered on her name, a chill chasing it's way through his body, but he continued, _needing_ to get it all out, unable to hold anything back any longer. "I wanted so badly for her to be different. Different from you. I had to leave you behind, I couldn't," squeezing his eyes shut tight, John fought to keep control, Sherlock's hand gripping so tight to his own, but not saying anything, just taking it all in, letting John have his say. "_I_ tried to delete _you_, if you can believe that," John joked with a half smile. "But, I had to. _I had to._" John added desperately with a half-choked sob. "And, then _she_ turned out to be worse. So much worse, and I didn't know. I couldn't _know_ because you never told me _why._ You _never_ told me why you jumped. It was for me, you did it for me, to protect _me_ and I didn't know and _this_ is what I did. I turned to her and this is my fault. And, you kept on doing it. Since coming back, giving up everything for me. Why? Why, Sherlock? I'm not worth that. I'm not worth _you_ sacrificing everything. I'm not. _You_ deserve so much. You deserve everything good and pure and that is _not_ me." He quietly wailed.

He was crying. He didn't know when it had started, just as he couldn't know where all that had come from, but it had and he was, the tears running freely down his cheeks, dripping from his chin onto his shirt. He scrubbed the back of his free hand across his eyes and startled when there were suddenly lips pressed against his own. His eyes flew open and Sherlock was there, leaning over him, lips pressed to John's.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," Sherlock whispered, his lips moving over John's, his breath pushing the apology into John's mouth, forcing the words as if John would otherwise reject them. His own tears mingled with John's between their lips.

And, when Sherlock began talking John realized that was all Sherlock was doing. He wasn't kissing properly, it was just the pressure of his mouth against John's, but it was altogether lovely and more than John had ever imagined - Sherlock's full lips, pressed against John Watson's own; velvety smooth and pillowy soft. John sighed in delight and tilted his head ever so slightly, nudging his nose against the side of Sherlock's, merely reveling in the solitary delight of the undiscovered pleasure.

"I wanted you to have the life you deserved." Sherlock confessed, not pulling back, still speaking against John's lips with quiet desperation. "Respectable, comfortable. Safe. Not having to be embarrassed by- by defending your sexuality or questions of your own sanity and constantly defending being saddled with the _freak_, and the _why-_"

John pulled back at this, couldn't let Sherlock finish. And Sherlock looked stunned, his eyes swimming with tears, staring at John's mouth like it was the only thing in the room. His eyes widened when John reflexively licked them in response to such blatant desire.

"Did you really think any of that mattered to me?" John was chagrined when Sherlock answered with a questioning brow raise.

"Yes, yeah, ok. I know. I was an idiot, but," He swallowed, running a palm over his face, wiping at the tears. "Didn't you see? Didn't you _observe_?" John was so tired, frustrated with the miscommunication that had festered between them for so long. He stopped, took a deep breath, took in the face that hovered so close, reveled in its incomparably odd beauty, delighted in the intelligence that burned so fiercely behind a kaleidoscope gaze and marveled at the depth and scope of loyalty that Sherlock possessed.

There was no going back for John now.

John reached up, cupping Sherlock's cheek with his palm, Sherlock leaned into the touch, closing his eyes with a soft sigh that made John melt just that bit more. "Don't you know how _proud_ I would have been to let everyone know that I belonged to Sherlock Holmes?" John asked softly. Sherlock's eyes flew open with such surprise at the confession, and John couldn't help but huff a short laugh at the reaction. "I always did, you know. From the very beginning, I was yours. I shot a man and you looked across that car park, saw me standing there, and my world shifted. You _owned_ me from that moment, Sherlock. I was always yours. All you ever had to do was reach out and take me."

This time, John leaned forward, surprising the detective as he brought their lips together. It was chaste. Slow. A gentle slide of one against the other but he felt the heat of it to the tips of his toes and was honored when he detected an answering tremor course through Sherlock's body.

He pulled back slowly, leaving Sherlock frozen, leaning in, and eyes still closed. He shuddered with a deep breath before opening his eyes and fixing John with a glassy, unfocused stare.

"You kissed me." Was his awed and breathless response.

"Well, you kissed me first." John teased gently, but then felt guilty for it when Sherlock sat back, his eyes cast to the side as the fingers of his free hand tentatively traced his own lips as he slowly shook his head.

"I did," he admitted in quiet wonder, lifting his head and John was captivated to find his eyes so bright with apparent astonishment. "I kissed you," his smile was beauteous and made John smile warmly in response. "I never kissed anyone-"

John laughed outright at the ridiculous statement, tapping a finger against his temple. "I beg to differ, mate. I've got the mental scars to prove that's not true."

Sherlock's nose scrunched, his brows drawing together in consternation. "What are you- Oh. _Oh,"_ His mouth formed a perfect circle with the exclamation. "Janine."

"Yeah," John drawled, his eyes narrowing with ire. "That just slipped your mind, then?"

"Well," he hemmed with quirk of his lip. "Technically, she kissed me. I mean, you were there. That one time-"

John cleared his throat, certain he didn't want any details about any of the other times. "Yeah, that's enough, there, Shag-a-Lot Holmes."

John pulled his hand away. It had remained entwined with Sherlock's this whole time, but thinking about this, _Sherlock and Janine_, caused a burst of bitter jealousy to erupt before he could contain it, and he didn't want Sherlock touching him at the moment.

His eyes stung, burned from the tears of earlier and the lack of sleep. He was bone-tired and this whole conversation had just turned into too much. It made him think of too much; all the hurt and anxiety, the betrayal and disillusion. The jealousy was the spark. The fire of anger and frustration began to rage and he was back to where it all started.

"You made me believe it was my fault, when you jumped. Killed yourself. I thought if I had been a better friend, if I had just paid more attention-"

"No, John. It was never your fault," Sherlock reached for his hand again, but John pulled back, as if he would be burned.

"I hated you for that. I think I still do."

Sherlock gasped and John felt a moment's regret before it was swallowed once again by the weight of his heartache. "And, then it happened all over again, made me believe the _same_ lie. That it was my fault I had chosen Mary. I didn't know who she was!" His voice strained, the pain of the truth more than he could contain. "How could I have known? She _lied_ about _everything._ And, you," John pointed, trembling with rage that he wasn't certain was justified at this time but it was well beyond him to control any of it now. "_You_ convinced me that it was _my fault!_ Because I'm attracted to that sort. That I'm attracted to 'dangerous people and dangerous situations'. Don't think that I didn't notice _that_ when you said it. Because I did. I did." John groaned and marched on. Digging and gouging and twisting the knife of blame so perfectly.

"But, what kills me." He stopped, swallowed, his throat constricted with pain. "I was trying to get _away_ from you. From someone like _you._ Why would I ever want that kind of person again? It killed me to watch you die. I buried you, Sherlock. I _buried you-_"

"That's enough, John!" Sherlock roared as he swarmed John in a rush, their mouths colliding in a painful clash. "Shut up!" He desperately groaned against John's mouth, their teeth clashing under the force, lips bruising with the pressure. "I didn't know. I didn't understand." Sherlock's voice broke on the last word and John knew that was a concession Sherlock Holmes very seldom made of his own free will, and with that confession John's ire seemed to melt away.

What John also realized in that moment as Sherlock stayed where he was, hands gripping John's shoulders like a vice and lips unmoving against John's own, was just what Sherlock had been trying to say earlier; he had never kissed anyone. Janine had _kissed_ him, John inwardly cringed with the recollection, calling the image up and seeing it with the perspective of this sudden truth; John saw it for what it had really been: Sherlock hadn't kissed her back, he had merely let her kiss _him._

John tried not to remember the headlines and articles that were posted in the papers about their sexcapades; articles that John had nearly memorized those long hours he had sat vigil at Sherlock's bedside during his initial recovery after the shooting. So many lurid details that made John's eyes bug at the time, but now it all lay in question.

Questions for another time. John had more important matters to attend.

"None of it was true," Sherlock confessed, the words compressed between them. "It was all I could do to choke out the words, John. You have to believe me. I didn't know how else to protect you."

John nodded, lifting both hands now to cradle Sherlock's face in his palms. "Shh, I know. It's ok." He pulled back just enough so that his eyes could focus, so that Sherlock wasn't so close that John couldn't make out his features because John wanted to drink him in. He wanted this moment forever and permanently burned into his frontal cortex, never to be forgotten.

"You didn't kiss Janine, did you?"

Sherlock's brow furrowed in consternation. "For God's sake, don't be an idiot, John. You know I hate repeating myself."

"Yeah, alright," John conceded. "So it's only _me_, then?"

Sherlock gave him the side eye and John held up his hands in supplication. "Right. Ok. I was just wondering. I mean, it just seemed," John stuttered. "You just seemed a little...inexperienced, and I was just as-"

"Oh, God. I did it wrong?" Sherlock moaned, slumping to the middle of the bed. He folded his legs up, elbows resting on his knees and his head drooped in his hands. The perfect picture of utter failure.

"There's no wrong or right, Sherlock-"

"But you could tell I hadn't done it before." he snapped in embarrassed outrage.

"That doesn't mean you did it _wrong._"

"How am I supposed to just _know_."

John scrubbed a tired hand over his face. "Just because you're a genius doesn't mean you're expected to know everything. _I_ don't expect you to know everything." John offered in his most reassuring tone before slyly adding, "It's something of an _acquired_ skill. Learned over time."

The feigned nonchalance of John's tone was not missed by Sherlock causing him to tilt his head in inquiry. "A case of 'practice makes perfect'?"

_Jesus._ They were flirting. Honest to God flirting. John Watson was flirting with Sherlock Holmes and it was being reciprocated. John felt a warm flush rush up his throat and into his cheeks. He smiled, he couldn't help it, he smiled at Sherlock, letting the affection that suffused his body show blatantly on his face. It was spectacular and the moment made all the more miraculous when he saw the same emotion reflected back from Sherlock's own smiling face.

And, it was _that_ smile, the one John hadn't seen in so very long, since long before his wedding, a time when Sherlock had slowly become shrouded in sadness and John, guiltily, done his level best to _not see_. The smile that had only ever been for John; soft and just the smallest bit shy, delicate but dazzling and it never ceased to steal John's breath.

He _was_ breathless now as something stretched tight between them in that instant. John knew Sherlock felt it, too, that infinitesimal shift in the very air, when John saw how wide were his eyes, his lips parted to allow for his increased respirations. John swallowed against a parched throat as the air between them seemed to thicken and grow evermore heavy.

"John?" Sherlock blinked, his eyelids fluttering in rapid succession, the query of John's name tinted with the slightest hint of fear. Of something unknown.

John almost felt sorry for Sherlock. _Almost._ He was so used to _knowing_ everything; always able to piece together the most nebulous of clues and ideas; to weave such random loose ends into a coherent and linear train of thought. But not this time.

No. This time Sherlock Holmes was adrift, utterly rudderless in this sea of unknown and uncharted waters while John Watson knew exactly what he was doing.

If it hadn't been such a precious and tender moment building between them, and John had been a lesser man, he might have gloated over the fact that he had Sherlock Holmes at such a disadvantage, but this was John Watson- doctor, soldier, blogger and, above all else, friend- and it just didn't sit right with him to tout a triumph of such magnitude over someone so seemingly naïve in this area.

That's not to say that while John _was_ a good man and would never want to make Sherlock feel uncomfortable, that, at this moment, with whatever _this_ was that had been building between them for so long and seemed to be culminating, right here, right now, that this whole situation hadn't unleashed the torrent of fantasies and dreams of all John Watson had ever conjured in the name of Sherlock Holmes. Every thought of taking Sherlock apart, piece by piece, breaking him down to his very cellular level, to watch him fall to pieces beneath John's hands and lips and tongue, to reduce him to ash and dust, to when all that was left of him was John's name on his lips. So much. Too much. All of John's need and want and angst and love. Of this man.

Of Sherlock Holmes.

The rampant thoughts made John lick his lips in anticipation of all that he had just allowed himself to envision; a quick, serpentine movement, as if he could taste Sherlock on the air and his own eyes slipped closed with the heat of the thought, breathing deeply through his nose. He heard Sherlock gasp at such a libidinous exhibition that not even Sherlock could feign ignorance in understanding its meaning.

"_John,_" He whispered this time, a note of pleading in his tone that caused a growing heat to swirl, coalescing low in John's belly, desperate and urgent, and if John gave in, heeded that desire, followed it through to the natural conclusion that was all-too-familiar for Three Continents Watson that would be more than a _bit not good._ Not for the near-terror stricken consulting detective looking for all the world like the proverbial 'deer in the headlights' as he waited to follow John's lead.

The thought made John's skin tingle with a desire he couldn't name. Well, that wasn't true. He knew _exactly_ what it was, what he wanted, _had_ wanted for so very long now but had suppressed under duress and the fortitude of a monk. He had never believed the action to be welcomed, let alone reciprocated by Sherlock, until tonight. The turn of the conversation had been eye-opening, the both of them revealing so much of their secret thoughts and innermost feelings; laying themselves bare to open speculation and questionable motivations.

However wrong, or ill-timed, or possibly dangerous all of this might turn out to be, it was inevitable.

Sherlock and John had been on this path since the moment they met. All the trials and tribulations they had suffered had not thwarted their journey. Oh, they had been side-tracked and distracted, and there were huge obstacles that remained in their way, still doubtless others yet to come, but through it all, they still found themselves _here._

Together.

So, John shifted, moving to his knees, his eyes locked on the bright, frightened, wide-eyed blue-green gaze that tracked his every movement. That saw _everything._ John crawled, hands and knees, toward Sherlock in the center of the bed, his movements slow and deliberate so as not to be misinterpreted, and Sherlock scrabbled back, just the tiniest bit. Falling back on his hands as John continued to push forward. Back on his elbows as John loomed over Sherlock now, still advancing until Sherlock was supine, staring up, unblinking and breathless. And so devastatingly beautiful. A flush of color decorated his impossibly high cheekbones and his Adam's apple bobbed with each nervous, reflexive swallow.

He was terrified and it made John's heart beat that much faster, made his breath that much harder to catch.

Sherlock braced his hands against John's upper arms, gripping so tightly, as if he needed an anchor against the tide of John's desire. It was entirely possible that the mad genius _did,_ in fact, because as focused as John was, as careful and as in control as he seemed to be, he was also just that bit manic about the entire situation and felt as if one strong wind could easily scatter him to the four corners. But, it wasn't beyond John to also recognize that one word or inkling of hesitation from Sherlock would stop this in an instant.

"_Sherlock_," John whispered reverently, continuing to stare into Sherlock's eyes, lost in the galaxies that swirled in the incomparable beauty of their azure hue.

Sherlock lay breathless beneath John, a Botticelli angel with his halo of dark curls and a face of sculpted beauty. The duvet was a tangle around him from chest to thighs where John straddled one as he loomed over the consulting detective. He gently shook Sherlock's grip loose from one arm, leaning on one hand in order to lift the other to Sherlock's face, unable to resist for a second longer: _touching_ Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock's wide eyes tracked the movement before sliding closed at John's first featherlight touch. John let his index finger skim across the slope of a pink-tinged cheekbone, down the curve of proud jaw and the jut of prominent chin, naturally following the architecture of a face John knew better on sight than his own and presently revelled in learning by the simple act of touch that had never been allowed. Well, in retrospect, it might possibly _have_ been but it was definitely an act John never thought Sherlock would _want._

In this instance though, it seemed like there could have been nothing Sherlock wanted more as all the while John's finger mapped the angles and curves of Sherlock's uncommonly beautiful face, Sherlock shifted his head, melting, conforming, following that touch, his eyes closed, mouth open, the very picture of contented bliss as he relished the lavish attention and rarity of _touch_, that sadly, John knew to which Sherlock was unaccustomed.

John's finger came to Sherlock's impossible mouth. He traced the perfect cupid's bow of an upper lip before sliding across the incomparable fullness of the bottom and wondered at the juxtaposition of such a thing. It mesmerized John, always had. Sherlock's mouth was a modern day wonder, and John had lost count of how many times he had found himself just staring at it, drawn to it, his eyes unable to see anything else, fascinated by the shape of clever deductions and the sharp edge of scathing insults that could be hurled so effortlessly from the captivating moue.

Looking at it now, in this new and wondrous context, as John hovered over the trembling form of a confused and, dare say, excited, Sherlock Holmes, John was convinced it was a mouth made for sin and was so very eager to test this hypothesis when he licked his own mouth in anticipation. It was this very movement, however, that pulled John's focus as the stuttered gasp from Sherlock registered in John's fevered mind and drew him to the true center of Sherlock's otherworldly beauty: his eyes.

They were wide, dark, so dark, darker than John had ever seen them, nearly all pupil highlighted with a ring of aquamarine incandescence. They blinked in dazed slow motion, lids shuttering slowly closed, long lashes a moment's dark fan against the pale skin below before slowly sliding back open to meet John's gaze without waver. The heat and the hunger that manifested in those dark orbs struck John like a thunderbolt to the back of the head, sending a sizzling aftershock coursing straight to the pit of his stomach. John closed his eyes to savor the feeling.

"_Oh,_" Sherlock gasps. "Do that again, John."

John was startled to hear Sherlock speak, his voice even deeper (how was that even possible?) than John could ever remember hearing. "Do what?" He asked, his head tilting with inquiry.

"That sound," he whispered in response and lifted a trembling finger to John's mouth, his eyes alight with wonder.

John hadn't been conscious of making a sound but was delighted with the thought that it had so enthralled Sherlock as John relished the calloused finger tentatively exploring the contours of his mouth. He couldn't help but purse his lips in response, placing the faintest of kisses against the appendage.

"What's happening, John?" Sherlock's confusion was apparent in the questioning gaze that met John's when he finally managed to tear his eyes from the sight of John's lips pressed against his index finger. "Are you-" he stopped and John raised a brow at the open question.

"Am I what, Sherlock?" John's voice was soft, nuzzling the finger that still hovered at his mouth and seemed in no hurry to retreat.

John loved this, having Sherlock at such a disadvantage and a little off keel, but instead of becoming frustrated with the imbalance under normal circumstances and huffing off in a strop until John saw fit to remember just who the genius was, the younger man was right there with him, willing to follow wherever John saw fit to lead.

"What do you _think_ I'm going to do? Can you _deduce_ it, hmm?"

"No. I don't _know_." He whinged and John could see that it was true and although Sherlock probably _suspected_ what John might do or wanted to do, there were still too many holes in his knowledge on this particular area of human interaction for him to make any sort of educated guess even if that weren't anathema to the very essence of who Sherlock Holmes was.

So with a sly and knowing smile, John slowly lowered his head to rub the side of his nose against Sherlock's. He felt the detective stiffen at the contact, a soft, surprised puff of breath warming John's as it escaped in surprise. John slid his free hand up, slipping it between the base of Sherlock's skull and the bed, his fingers curving around to cradle Sherlock's neck, lifting so that it curved in a subtle arch- the long, pale column like a sacrifice to the gods and making John's mouth water in exquisite anticipation- as his nose grazed along Sherlock's cheek until his mouth rested against the cup of Sherlock's ear.

The detective froze as John whispered, "I'm going to _kiss_ you, Sherlock Holmes."


	13. Chapter 13

_Blink. _John waited._ Blinkblink. _This felt awfully familiar. _Blinkblinkblinkblink. _And, there it was:

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_Do you wish to continue?

During their long and complicated association, John had witnessed a wide range and variety of rather odd moments and reactions from the world's only consulting detective. Sherlock hadn't lied when, on their first meeting, he had informed John that he sometimes didn't talk for days and had demonstrated that feat on more than one occasion. John always looked upon those times as mini rewards for the more-often thankless job of 'consultant wrangler', the moniker he had been more or less saddled with by default upon taking up residence with the detective. The silence was often a welcome relief to the normal chaos and mayhem that swirled within the walls of 221B, and he found those moments exceedingly conducive to catching up on crap telly, bad spy novels, and blog updating. It was amazing the things John Watson could manage to accomplish and fit around a vegetative Sherlock Holmes when he wasn't having to constantly tell the great git to _'shut up', 'clear away the pig uterus from the vegetable drawer'_, or complaining with the classic, _'you forgot milk_ again _?_'.

_This_ was not _that_. _This,_ pause/timeout/suspension of time and space, was not a sulk or a strop or a meandering stroll through his mind palace. Sherlock was offline; error messages were flashing, all systems critical, his hard drive in desperate need of a reboot. John had seen this reaction in Sherlock only once before- when John had asked him to be best man at his wedding. That moment had been so endearing and bittersweet, Sherlock's shocked reaction demonstrating to John just how clueless Sherlock had been to the depth and breadth of John's feelings for him. It had completely taken Sherlock _unawares-_ the possibility that John considered him his best friend. The surprise of that revelation, in fact, doing just this same thing; shutting down the world's greatest mind.

"Hey, you," John hummed, nudging playfully at Sherlock's jaw with the end of his nose, exploring the dusting of dark stubble that decorated Sherlock's normally smooth, clean-shaven face. Sherlock took a quick, hitching breath and John pulled back just enough to see that his eyes were back in focus. "There you are." John crooned and welcomed Sherlock back with a small, understanding smile. "All right?"

Sherlock blinked again, and nodded in a slow daze. John found his speechlessness beyond lovely but made no plans to comment on it or call attention to his reaction in order to spare Sherlock any insecurity. John knew he had Sherlock at a considerable disadvantage and had no desire to make Sherlock feel anymore self-conscious than the younger man was so obviously feeling already.

John studied Sherlock's face once again, focused on his eyes, and the hint of fear that shadowed their luminosity, and what he saw there had John questioning everything to this point.

"If this isn't- Sherlock, if I've somehow misunderstood-"

"No. John," Sherlock contended in a rush. "I need-" Shaking his head, he closed his eyes, taking a moment to gather his thoughts before sighing and opening his eyes once more. It took a moment before he lifted his gaze, meeting John's eyes with hesitancy before he lifted a hand and placed it at the center of John's chest.

The heat of his wide palm and long fingers spread through the thin layer of John's t-shirt quickly and John silently cursed the barrier of fabric, the touch sending a rush of need speeding through John's body.

Taking the gesture as permission granted to continue on course, John licked his lips, leaning ever closer to Sherlock's waiting mouth. But just as the distance between them was nearly nil, Sherlock's fingers tightened in the fabric where his hand rested, the pressure he placed there halting John's forward momentum.

John felt as if he had been submerged in the Thames, his body instantly pulling back in a chilled retreat only to be quickly thwarted by the stranglehold Sherlock now held on his shirt.

"Don't go," he whispered, the edge of pleading merely adding to John's immediate confusion.

"Christ, Sherlock, I'm getting whiplash here." John regretted the words almost instantly when he saw the look of contrition on Sherlock's face. "It's ok. Really. I understand. You don't want-"

"Oh, for God's sake, don't be an idiot, John." John could have laughed in relief, filled with the halcyon glee of hearing Sherlock be so very _Sherlockian_ in his disdain. "Of course I _want._ I want-" Here he hesitated and John understood that it was the result of another chink in Sherlock's armor, so untried in this area they were now exploring that his beautiful, magnificent, genius mind had no data to cull in order to even imagine what it was that he might desire, let alone have any capacity to articulate it.

"I understand. It's ok," John hurried to offer.

"John, no," Sherlock's fingers flexed against John's chest before drawing back into a fist. "No, I don't think you do. I don't think _I_ do. Oh, _hell_," Sherlock groused, he had been staring at his hand but now lifted hesitant eyes to look squarely into John's own questioning stare. "I'm not averse," Sherlock swallowed, his growing apprehension all too apparent, making John want to kiss him all the more. To soothe and convince him that it would all be alright, but he gave Sherlock time because, as John had proven over and over again, he had infinite patience when it came to Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock tried again. "I'm not averse to...to that idea. Kissing," The rush of his words made John's lip quirk and Sherlock rolled his eyes in reply. "Yes, John, I'm very cute when I am utterly out of my depth." he chided and John schooled his face once more with a clearing of his throat. "What I'm _trying_ to say is that while I am not averse to the idea of...this, whatever we are to be to one another: colleagues, friends..._lovers,_" he added almost breathlessly, while John felt the answering heat of that possibility, heavy in his veins. "It's your choice, John. You are, for all the world, defined by your loyalty and steadfastness and it is those very characteristics that hold you above all others in my eyes, and-" Sherlock had to stop, take a deep breath. He swallowed thickly before pinning his stare to John once more as he waited for the rest of that sentence with a sudden dread.

John felt something hollow and cold form in the pit of his stomach hearing Sherlock's words and the wrong turn the conversation had suddenly taken. He made to move, but Sherlock held tight and John acquiesced without a fight, his entire body feeling numb and heavy with a sharp sadness.

They were so close. They were both on the same page. Finally. _Finally!_ Were they really going to let _themselves_ get in the way this-

"And, I am at your mercy, John. I know what I want. It's you, John Watson. It's always been you."

John gasped, his racing thoughts screeching to a halt before they could come to fruition when he heard Sherlock's words, the declaration low and soft but oh-so clear. John had heard those words before. At his very own wedding, during Sherlock's chaotic best-man's speech. John had had no context for the statement, no idea what was going on in Sherlock's funny old head at the time as John and the rest in attendance had watched as he maniacally juggled sorting out a potential murder victim and keeping up appearances during the reception.

John had merely thought Sherlock's meaning dwelt in the wheelhouse of John's ability to 'save the life', so he had suppressed the momentary flutter the statement had induced in the vicinity of his heart; the ardent, but hopeless, wish that Sherlock could have meant something else entirely. But just as soon as the thought had snuck into his consciousness, John had just as quickly and thoroughly, albeit silently, admonished himself for that fleeting lapse of sentiment in regards to Sherlock. How could he think that, when it had always been so painfully obvious that Sherlock Holmes was incapable of _feeling_ in that capacity? And, honestly, how could John have thought to entertain that idea, for even a second, _there_, during his _wedding_ as his brand new _bride_ had been sitting at his side. _What was wrong with him?_

Now he knew. John Watson knew. Unequivocally and with certainty. He had been wrong. So wrong. About so many things.

He felt a sudden lightness of being and the smile that easily spread across his face was effortless and carefree, in spite of all the obstacles that remained in their path. He noticed a flicker of the smile returned.

"John, I can see you finally _see_ where I stand," Sherlock continued, although his tone didn't yet match the lightness that filled John. "This is now your decision. Anything from you will be welcomed, celebrated, and whatever you wish, I will live with your choice."

John felt his heart stutter as the reality of what Sherlock was saying became clear- he was giving John an 'out'. And, just what he _wasn't_ saying: _As always._ The depth of growth in maturity this revealed in the younger man was astonishing and made John's next words that much easier.

"I don't take any of this lightly, Sherlock."

"I know, John. I _do_ know. That's why I don't want you to-"

John shook his head, interrupting. "I know my heart. This is not an ideal situation. I know it's not. But, we'll worry about everything else later, yeah? I know this is wrong," John swallowed, cleared his throat. "All of the time we've wasted," He nearly groaned, the agony of it all, so futile. "All of the _people_, the lies, the _tricks,_ the deaths," His quirked brow of admonishment was met with a patently torturous expression of chagrin. "Everything that has come between us. Hell, _we've_ come between us, stopped ourselves too many times," John's mind recalled a flash image from his stag night, his hand pressed against Sherlock's knee and how _much_ he had longed to follow through with that hazy, unguarded moment. "We _deserve_ this, Sherlock," John whispered fiercely. "I'm not going to feel guilty for it, _ever-"_

With an agonizing moan, Sherlock's hand flexed against John's chest, pulling him just a fraction closer as he whispered, the desperation in his voice, dark and keening. "If you'll just give me this-" And, finally, oh, _finally,_ he lifted himself in a rush as his mouth met John's, crashing, hard and insistent. "Just this. God, this, just give me this," he begged. _God,_ Sherlock Holmes _begged,_ the words forced against John's mouth recklessly. "Please, John, please, I'll never ask for more than this. This one moment. Now. Here. _This._"

Sherlock was nearly sobbing and the sound of his pleading wrecked John completely. Releasing a soft, cooing sound from the back of his throat, John pulled back just a fraction to ease the pressure of Sherlock's needy endeavour. He lowered himself, resting the weight of his body on his elbows where they bracketed Sherlock's head; the sudden closeness drawing John's gaze to Sherlock's wide, dark eyes. John ignored the questions and the hint of uncertainty that hid in their mercurial depths as he closed his own and lowered his mouth to Sherlock's.

"It should have only ever been you and me," he gently whispered, taking slow, small sips of Sherlock's full lower lip. "It's time for us to be that one bit greedy and take-" his lips skated across the bow of the top, pressing tiny, sweet pecks to each corner between his hushed words. "-take what we want. What we deserve." John nudged the side of his nose against Sherlock's, letting his lips barely graze Sherlock's own, the gentle slide tempting Sherlock to follow, to respond by offering a tenderly pursed mouth as his head shifted beneath John's- his first offering of a kissably pliable mouth. The subtle return of play made John's heart thump loudly and a quiet moan of satisfaction escaped John as he rewarded the advance in technique by pressing a smile against the effect of Sherlock's quick-study ability.

"Yes, just like that." Came John's hushed praise as he played his mouth against Sherlock's with gentle nibbles designed to relax Sherlock's lips, coaxing them slowly to respond, showing him, without the need to rush, that kissing was more than the pressure between two mouths. It was this; in this moment, the slow melting together- tender and timid, learning each other in this new and sultry context. John's blood was sluggish in his veins, heavy and hot, filling him with a slow, torpid, achy need with each of Sherlock's warm breaths that he breathed.

During one slow, sweep of his mouth from one corner of the erudite detective's to the other, John's focus narrowed to the small scar beneath the corner of Sherlock's bottom lip. Of all the unknown marks and scars that now decorated Sherlock's body, John knew this one. It was _his_ scar- John's own lasting mark, small as it was, for the pain and agony John had endured while he believed Sherlock to be dead, and the anger that had blindly filled him upon Sherlock's unbelievable return. Seeing it now brought John up short, the memory trying to pull him back down that spiral of anger and resentment and John nipped at it before it could, an odd rush of retribution nevertheless filling him as he held that bit of scarred flesh between his teeth.

Sherlock gasped and went rigid beneath him. "_Yes,_" he groaned as his body writhed in a wanton wave beneath John's. "I'm sorry, John. I'm sorry." Sherlock was breathless, panting and not just apologising for his past misdeeds. John could see the flush of desire that coloured his neck and face, his pupils were dark pools of need, and the death-defying grip he maintained on John's shirt spoke volumes as to the strength of his want, but he seemed undeterred by this base betrayal of his transport as he blinked slowly and licked his lips provocatively.

"Christ, Sherlock," John groaned, the incendiary action hitting its mark as John shoved his hand behind Sherlock's head, grasping a handful of the thick, ebony curls at the base of Sherlock's skull.

"_Yes,_" Sherlock hissed. It was an unexplored delight for both men- the feeling of John's hand wound in Sherlock's hair. Sherlock arched into John's palm as his fingers stretched against his skull before fisting even tighter in the inky strands. The intimacy of the action emboldened Sherlock and he shifted, moving both arms to wrap around John, planting one broad, warm palm at John's waist as the other skated up the length of his spine, before his long fingers molded to the curve of John's neck. "John," he whispered, the longing in that one word alone enough to fuel John's imagination for a lifetime. "I don't-" he shook his head, the frustration from his lack of data all-too obvious and John's heart ached to know that Sherlock had been so deprived and overlooked by so many that deemed him incapable of any kind of intimacy (John just as guilty as anyone else). When, looking at him now, it was so obvious, that he absolutely _burned_ with passion and desire.

"I don't know what- I'll never ask for more than this, John, but, please, I don't _know._ I don't know how, or what. I won't break. I won't. I just need. I need-" Sherlock's fingers tightened on John's neck in desperation. "Please, it's all I want. It's all I'll ever need. Show me, John. Show me. I know you know. I know- you're the only one. The only one that could-"

Sherlock was breathless and wild, the words spilling out in a frantically desperate rush that John halted with a firm tug of his hair, that stopped him instantly. Somewhere in the deep, dark recesses of John's psyche, Sherlock's reaction resonated; recalling the whispers of memory when John had been forced to revert to soldier-awareness and the pique of curiosity he had always observed in Sherlock. He tucked the recollection away, bookmarking it for later, when he was at ease to explore the significance at his leisure.

"That could what? Tell me, Sherlock. Tell me what you want." John's words had Sherlock gasping and his fingers flexing against his neck, sliding higher so that they brushed the coarse hair at John's nape; the flush of heat such a small movement caused to erupt over John's skin was brilliantly maddening.

This was like nothing John had ever experienced before. He had yet to fully _kiss_ Sherlock and his body already hummed with anticipation.

Sherlock was beautiful- his eyes glazed and lust-addled, his breathing was heavy as it stuttered through his parted lips, his hair was a riot of curls. The overall look could only be described as debauched. And, _Christ,_ they hadn't even done anything yet.

"Stop me now, Sherlock." It was John's turn to beg, his restraint failing him miserably; he was past all thought of consequence and repercussion, his world narrowed to this one defining moment that had eluded the two of them since the beginning. The perpetual wedge of misunderstanding and cosmically cruel jokes and half-truths, dangers and lies that had always stepped between them, the two of them orbiting like lost satellites. John was sick of it. Done. So utterly and completely done.

The fight was gone from him. "I swear to God, if you don't-"

"Do it, John. For God's sake, do it. Wreck me. _Ruin me-_"

"_Fuck,_" John growled and lost all semblance of propriety. Of control. Of reason and discipline.

His hand in Sherlock's hair tightened, twisted, John's mouth capturing the angle painfully with a smothered _'mmph_' from Sherlock. Gone were the kisses from earlier- tender and tentative- John was a man on a mission, plundering Sherlock's lips, stealing the breath from the skittish detective. Sherlock's hands moved, wound tight around John, his fingers- those long, dexterous fingers- grasping, gripping, digging into the flesh just beneath John's shoulder blades, holding on for all the world as if John might suddenly pull away.

John was overwhelmed; the blood pounding in his ears doing nothing to drown the needy sounds emanating in deep, low rumbles from Sherlock's chest in response to the now thorough snogging John was doling out. And, _Christ,_ John was happy to do it. Thrilled and just as anxious as Sherlock. It had been so long. So long since he had felt this...this all-encompassing need for another person.

Had it ever been like this before? So keen? So sharp? Filling his every fibre with an aching want? It had never felt like this with Mary. Not even on their honeymoon...

_Jesus._

"John?" Sherlock managed to breathe when John abruptly stopped kissing him. "Did I-"

"_No_," the interjection was too quick and sharp and John silently cursed himself as he pulled back, scrubbing a hand roughly across his face. "No, it's not-" John cleared his throat, uncertain just what to say, choked by his sudden guilt.

"Oh," Sherlock's voice was low. "I see."

And, of course he did. He was Sherlock Bloody Holmes, he _saw_ everything.

"_Shit,_" John groaned. "Sherlock, I'm sorry. I didn't-"

"It's fine, John," he supplied softly as he scooted back in the bed, sliding away and from beneath John, clutching the duvet to keep it from slipping off. "I should never have put you in this position. I understand."

John reached out, gripping Sherlock's forearm to stop his sudden retreat. This was horrible. The very air in the room was now stagnant with just how _wrong_ this whole situation had so abruptly turned. "You don't understand. This is all my fault. It's my problem- I shouldn't have-"

_Shit_, that sounded all wrong, and John wasn't the only one to think so as the words caused Sherlock to pull free from John's grasp and climb quickly off the bed, heading straight for the door.

"Sherlock, please." _Stay. Don't go. Come back to my bed._ John's throat closed tight, unable to bring himself to say _any_ of those things.

Sherlock paused at the door but didn't turn around. John could see the slow rise and fall of his shoulders as he took a deep breath. "You're a good man, John Watson." Sherlock's head bowed as he whispered, "The same could never be said for me."

John closed his eyes in anguish and flinched in pain as he heard the click of the lock of the door across the hall.


	14. Chapter 14

"_I shouldn't have."_

"_I shouldn't have."_

"_I shouldn't have."_

The litany of John's admission cycled in a loop that Sherlock couldn't silence. The new phrase now added to the lexicon of John in the permanent commentary that narrated Sherlock's existence.

_Stupid._

_'What did you expect, Sherlock?' _Mycroft's voice taunted in that damnable, all-knowing way.

"Do shut-up." Sherlock growled, hurling himself away from the door where he had leaned, defeated, after his hasty retreat from John.

_'The doctor is married, Sherlock. Expecting a child.'_

"I know that! Don't you think I don't _know_ that?" Was his angered, piteous reply. It was all Sherlock had been capable of thinking of since his return. _Mary: _not who any of them thought she was, his own failure in that regard nearly too much for him to endure, both literally and figuratively. Then there was the knowledge of a baby, _John's baby,_ in which capriciously, Sherlock had managed to block the thought that Mary might have any influence over it's development. Sherlock was thoroughly convinced the child would be a carbon copy of her father. Perfect and healthy and strong. The thought manifested in a wistful smile.

_'Oh, dear lord.' _Mycroft bemoaned his little brother's flight of fancy before pressing further on his previous course and redirecting the conversation back to where it had begun. _'Be that as it may, _if_ this sordid little liaison had managed to come to...fruition-'_

Sherlock rolled his eyes at his brother's use of the euphemism. Mycroft's distaste in such _base_ interactions had always bordered on the comical. But, this wasn't funny. _Definitely _not funny.

_'It's much better this way.'_

"Oh, is it?"

_'Of course.' _The smug git replied with an imperial lift of his chin._ 'Can you imagine? The guilt? The lamenting?'_

"I wouldn't have felt guilty."

_'I wasn't referring to you, little brother. Yes, I dare say, it's much better this way.'_

Easy enough for him to say. He wasn't the one standing there, naked in a blanket with the pressure of a tea-tinted first kiss still tingling on his lips. Sherlock now knew the exact way John Hamish Watson fit against him, the cage of Sherlock's body the perfect receptacle for every angle and soft edge of John's own. He now knew the incredible feeling of John's breath against his skin; he had mapped the edges of John's teeth; had been intimate with the slick slide between their tongues. Closing his eyes, Sherlock relived the bliss of having John's hand twined in his hair and the near-rapturous feeling as he had pulled, strong and commanding, while Sherlock wilted beneath.

His reply was fatuous. "We don't know that's how he would have reacted-"

_'Balance of probability, Sherlock.'_

"For God's sake, you _really_ need a new catch phrase."

Mycroft's lips pursed as if he'd just sucked a persimmon, which pleased Sherlock to no end.

_'To have that knowledge of John Watson, _now, _after all the years you've denied yourself, and after all you've sacrificed. No. You couldn't have come back from that, Sherlock. You're barely here now.'_

Harsh as it was, Sherlock let the statement sink in, and it caused a hot, rising wave of nausea from the pit of his stomach; a sickening flash of acknowledgment for the truth he knew Mycroft now spoke.

_'So you see- for the best.'_

"Not for me." Sherlock whispered, tugging the duvet tight against the all-too-familiar chill of despair that now leeched into his bones.

Mycroft heaved a terse, albeit, patient sigh on his brother's behalf. _'How many times have you heard the good doctor say, quite unequivocally, that he wasn't _that_ way, Sherlock? Correct me if I'm wrong, but hasn't he even _printed _as much on that ghastly log of banality he calls a _blog_? So really, dear brother, can it come as such a shock that things didn't _progress_ as you had wished?'_

Sherlock flopped in an inelegant heap upon the side of the bed, shoulders rounded and head hanging in bitter defeat under his brother's more insightful knowledge.

_'Lovely. Now, that we are on the same page and you can put all this senseless sentiment away-'_

"How? _How_ do I just 'put it away, Mycroft? It's all just so easy for you, to _always_ be telling me 'sentiment is useless', 'all hearts are broken, Sherlock'," He mimicked in that condescending tone Mycroft always used to hammer home his meaning to Sherlock. "What do you even _know _of sentiment? Of _feelings? _You wouldn't know a _true_ _one_ if it smacked you in the nose." Sherlock hissed.

_'On the contrary, little brother. I know _plenty_,' _he reminded Sherlock pointedly. _'But, what I also know is this- this _involvement_ you seem so keen in fostering with the good doctor, can lead to nothing but heartache and bitter disappointment for you. Look at all you have suffered so far in your liaison: a faked suicide to protect him; two years exile under conditions the UN would be appalled to know existed under their management; a _lukewarm_ welcome upon your return; watching him wed someone else; being shot; committing mur-'_

"Enough!" Sherlock roared, his hands finding his hair and pulling with all the intention of scalping himself, his only recourse to subject himself to literal pain to subsume the harsh and aching realisations in Mycroft's soliloquy. "I don't need a bloody reminder, I lived it, remember? Got the bloody scars to prove it."

_'And, not just ones that we can see.' _Mycroft quietly replied before forging ahead when Sherlock refused to be goaded into a response. _"Right, good then, now that we are at an understanding there are more important matters to attend. Moriarty-'_

"No," Sherlock hissed, tensing at the name. "No, no, no. Not him. I will _not_ discuss him."

_'Don't be ridiculous, brother dear. His reappearance is the only reason you aren't once again, in some hovel in Eastern Europe, suffering a slow but thoroughly, painful death. Moriarty's return is the only thing-'_

"For God's sake! _STOP_ saying his name! _Stop it!_ I don't want to hear it. He's dead. He is. He _is,_" Sherlock tried desperately to control the rising panic that filled his skin at the thought the consulting criminal could still be...No. No. It was too much- too horrid to think; the possibility terrifying. "I stood on that roof and watched him put a gun to his mouth and pull that trigger. He's dead, Mycroft. Dead. He couldn't have faked-"

_'You did.' _The statement is so matter-of-fact that Sherlock winces. _'Just look at all he was able to accomplish, brother mine, without ever lifting a finger. You think _this_ was beyond his skill set? Why, with Mary on his payroll, it's practically a given.'_

"Do _not_ mention that- that _woman's _name to me." From the moment of Sherlock's return, Mary had been a sore subject for him. Coming back to find John living with _her_ and on the cusp of proposing marriage was a possibility that had never entered Sherlock's realm of consciousness during his two years away. Not that he thought John would have _waited _for him-

_'Yes, you did.' _Came Mycroft's swift rebuttal, which Sherlock blatantly ignored.

But for John's sake, Sherlock had managed to muddle through, to the point where he grew a grudging respect and mild affection for the woman John made his partner in life.

That was to say, up until the point she had shot Sherlock, point blank, and his brother had seen fit to 'go a little deeper' into her background. Mycroft has shared the intel with Sherlock (against his wishes) revealing to the consulting detective Mary's employment under Moriarty. He hadn't wanted to know. If he knew about Mary, anything at all, what was he to do?_ Tell John? _That would just ruin his marriage. _Not tell John?_ Then Sherlock would always have to pretend. _Not tell John and someone else find out about Mary? _Then John was in danger and would never see it coming. _Not tell John and have John find out that Sherlock had known all this time and hadn't told him?_ Then Sherlock would lose the only person in his life that he cared about, because there was no way John Watson would ever forgive him of that kind of betrayal.

Not again.

_'Yes, it's quite the conundrum, seeing as you _do _know about the lovely Mrs. Watson and her dealings with Moriarty.'_

"Mycroft, do shut up."

With the lift of a haughty brow, and the patience of a saint, he continued his diatribe without missing a beat. _'Be that as it may, you have more important things to worry about now, brother mine. Moriarty is apparently back and you are the one to which the entire British Security Service is looking to deal with the matter. It's the _whole _reason you were granted this stay of execution.'_

"I didn't _ask _for any stay of execution, brother. I didn't ask for any of this."

_'Of course not. Ever the martyr, Sherlock.'_

"I'm not! I'm not trying to be a martyr, I don't _want_ to be a martyr. I don't want to hear about Moriarty! I don't want to hear his bloody name. I just want you to Leave. Me. Alone!" Sherlock lashed out, the flash of his anger and fury immediate, tempered by the blinding edge of fear that culminated in his sudden outburst.

His foot connected with the bedside table, sending it crashing on it's side. The pounding on the door sounded before the remains of his mother's tea service came to a shattering rest across the floor.

"Sherlock!" Came John's frantic call as he continued knocking furiously against the door. "Sherlock, are you alright? Open this bloody door!" He cursed, his voice steely in it's resolve that Sherlock obey as he now rattled the handle furiously.

"It's- I'm ok, John. Just another nightmare." Sherlock managed to modulate his tone as he gingerly stepped across the broken shards of pottery. "Nothing to worry about. Sorry to have disturbed you."

"_Sorry to have disturbed me?_" He could make out John muttering under his breath from the other side of the door. Never a good sign to have John Watson muttering to himself. "Jesus. Sherlock. Just open the door."

Pulling himself up to his full height with all the imperial grace one could muster while wrapped in the shroud of a cotton duvet, Sherlock hauled the door open just as John poised to give it another pounding, causing him to stumble forward a bit with the momentum. He cleared his throat as he managed to right himself before giving Sherlock a quick once over. "All right?"

"I'm perfectly fine, John. Nightmare, as I said, though you _know _I hate repeating myself-"

"Yeah, yeah, I remember. But you only just _left_ so you couldn't have fallen asleep that fast."

"Is that your medical opinion, _doctor?'_ Sherlock scowled, a brow raised high on his forehead leaving no room to misinterpret his scepticism at such a paltry diagnosis. 'I mean, you can't have failed to notice I _am _coming off a pretty spectacular high."

"_'Spectacular'_?" John hissed, running a frustrated hand down the back of his head. "That's not even a little funny. And, of course! I haven't 'failed to notice', Christ, Sherlock."

"Yes, well," Sherlock hedged, swishing the trailing ends of his blanket to the side as he quickly skirted past John and into the hallway behind him. "The drugs, you know. Terrible things. Wreak _havoc_ on normal functions. I have always had just _the _worst drug-induced nightmares. Would be enough to scare any normal person straight, but," He laughed, hollow and self-deprecating as he chattered on and waltzed back into his own room- the one John was using, the one where John had just kissed him, on his childhood bed, where he had thought-

"But, what, Sherlock?" John's voice halted the images apparently eager to be relived in Sherlock's fervent imagination and Sherlock suppressed a shiver, the interruption the perfect dousing of cold water he needed to thwart that torrent of wasted sentiment.

Sherlock scowled, trying to recall just what he had been saying. "Oh. Yes, well, that, obviously, I'm not _normal._" The comment was offered with an uninterested flick of the wrist in John's general area before he turned and began rifling through the wardrobe.

"What are you doing, Sherlock?"

Casting a gaze over his shoulder at the question, Sherlock caught John's expression as he wiped a weary hand down his face.

"Clothes, John, I need clothes. And this being my old room and mum being the sentimental fool she is, I'm certain there should be _something _here." Sherlock was flinging clothes behind him as he spoke, unaware of the mania that now gripped him. "A remnant of my misspent youth. A tee shirt." Another piece over his shoulder. "Jogging pants." John feigned to the right, to avoid the latest article of clothing from hitting him in the face, allowing it to land in the growing pile at his feet. "A bloody _dressing gown_ for Christ's sake." He groused, poised to hurl another offending item blindly when John grabbed his wrist, halting the follow-through.

"_Jesus_. Can you-" John cleared his throat, that little anomaly of his that had a myriad of implications, of which Sherlock was unable to pinpoint at this exact moment. He didn't let go of Sherlock's wrist and Sherlock didn't turn around. "Can you just stop? For a second? Breathe and maybe we could... I don't know. Maybe we could sit down and talk about all of-"

"There's nothing to talk about, John."

"There _is_. Of course, there is. I didn't mean," John stammered. "You misunderstood-"

"No, I understood clearly. It's _fine_, John. I'm not a child, and although, I may lack personal experience in these areas, I'm not completely _ignorant_ of how they work. Both parties must be interested and free to pursue those interests without conflict. And most certainly, these types of interactions should never be undertaken out of..._guilt _or a sense of obligation." The words were fired at machine-gun speed, and he was at the ready to launch even more until he was silenced by John.

"Stop it!" he yelled, the facade of his usual control slipping for a split second before once more reining it all in. With a deeply frustrated breath, he pulled Sherlock around to finally face him, his grip tight and unrelenting. "You sound like you got that from a bloody book."

"Of course, I got that from a book." Sherlock couldn't help but toss out, loathe as he always was to repeat himself (he just couldn't help it), and the rejoinder sent a shard of bitter, fleeting glee singing in his veins at the reminiscence of when he had said just that same thing to John about his 'relationship' with Janine.

Another false glimmer of hope he had seen in John's reaction then, too. _So stupid!_ Sherlock pulled his wrist free of the circle of John's fingers, inwardly cursing just how much he wanted to keep that touch there. To have more. Always more.

"Did you not hear _any_ of the things I said to you, earlier?" John was looking at the floor, his hands at his sides, fists clenching and relaxing. He took a deep breath, shoulders back before lifting his head and meeting Sherlock's eyes. "I care for you. Have always cared-"

"I know, John." Sherlock was surprised by the quiet tone of his own words now, but he was tired and he didn't want to fight with John. He didn't want to be the reason John looked so tired. The reason the lines of his face seemed deeper. The reason his brow furrowed and his shoulders sagged when he thought no one was looking. The reason for the bruised flesh beneath his blue eyes. The reason why his step sometimes faltered; a tiny misstep here and there, not enough for anyone else to notice, but Sherlock did. Sherlock saw it all and Sherlock was the reason so much in John Watson's life was a bit not good. "It's enough, just to know that you do."

Sherlock's heart seized, his chest constricted, as John reached out, taking his wrist again, carefully, gently, the pads of his fingers sliding against the tender skin of his inner wrist, his thumb twining, encircling it's circumference. All of the air left the room as Sherlock stared into the watery blue depths of John's eyes; the moment hung in suspended silence before John swayed, moving slowly forward to close the distance between them.

_God, _Sherlock wanted that to happen, wanted nothing between them but the whisper of breath and the kiss of skin. It was like an itch beneath Sherlock's skin- out of reach. So much Sherlock wanted was just at the tips of his fingers but may as well have been on the other side of the world.

John Watson belonged to someone else.

Sherlock broke his gaze away first before slowly, gently, easing his arm from John's grasp. He could feel the heat in his face, the rising tide of shame and humiliation as he turned from John's questioning stare. He couldn't bear the thought of John seeing just how devastated he was by his shameful desire; his aching need for the man. John didn't need that guilt on top of everything else.

"I'm going to take a shower." Sherlock managed, though _how_ he wasn't certain, his throat nearly too tight to force the words through.

John cleared his throat. "Yeah, right. Good. Um, I think I'll make some tea. Yeah. Do you-"

"Um, no. No, thank you. I'm really crashing now, so," God, this was awful, the two of them so uncomfortable with each other, but what could Sherlock do? He didn't know how to fix _this._ "I think I'll just try to get some more sleep."

John nodded, looking a little hopeful as he offered, "Do you need anything? Something to help? You know, with the...nightmares? Mycroft's left an entire pharmacy downstairs, I'm certain there's something I could get for you-"

"No," Sherlock said softly, a sad smile gracing the corners of his lips. John Watson was an awfully good man. "Thank you, but it's probably best if I didn't take anything..."

"Right. Of course." John rocked back and forth on his heels, before shoving his hands deep in his pockets, his shoulders rising up around his ears. "Well, then, have a good shower and I hope you get some rest. And, um, I'll just be...Yeah, I'll be downstairs if you... need anything." He made a military-sharp pivot turn and headed for the door.

"John," Sherlock called out, halting John at the doorway. He didn't have anything else to say but the thought of John leaving this room...it was too final. "Thank you. For everything."

He watched the rise and fall of John's shoulders as he took one long, deep breath before turning his head and fixing Sherlock with that mesmerizing marine stare. "Anything for you, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock sagged against the cupboard he stood in front of as John left, his words heavy on Sherlock's heart. He heaved a sigh, bullying his heart back under control in order to finally find something that could pass for clothes before making his way to the bathroom.

The light on the vanity is harsh, and he blinks, trying to adjust to the bright environment. He feels exposed; vulnerable. The blanket slips to the floor in a puddle around his feet and he looks at himself in the mirror. It isn't something he's been too keen to do, since his return from the dead. His vanity had always known no bounds but now...well, now. His eyes rest on the scar on his right side, low on his rib cage, the line jagged and still red. Mary's handiwork. It's ugly but most of that is his own fault since the doctors had had to open him back up to stop the internal bleeding his traipsing around Lauriston Gardens had caused.

Sherlock didn't look any further than that. He didn't have the stomach to look at or think about the others that now marred his body. It was a kind of twisted relief (ha!) that things hadn't progressed any further with John. He knew he couldn't have handled John's pity, his questions, or ultimately, Sherlock was certain, his repulsion. Because if he had seen them all, it wouldn't have been hard to figure out all that Sherlock had endured and the doctor would have been appalled.

No, no matter how much Sherlock wanted John Watson, it was all for the best, just how it ended up, although that didn't stop Sherlock now from imagining what never would be. He wanted something he was only vaguely aware had a name. The feeling had been so ephemeral for so long, but now he had a reference point. He had kissed and been kissed. His fingers traced the seam of his own lips, the remembered reciprocation nearly as potent as the moment itself. He closed his eyes, remembering the smell, the taste of John. Sherlock had been so out of his depth and now he didn't have enough data to even articulate the desire that rose to color his chest, his neck, his cheeks. He was stupid and blind in the face of want and need and hunger. All of it was too vague, too unfamiliar and left him uncomfortable and hot.

He flinched, jolted from his thoughts when he found his hand had drifted. It had been mapping the plains of his chest, the slope of his abdomen and now rested in the thatch of dark hair that sprung from between his legs, surrounding the jutting length of his arousal. His fingers twitched as he debated-

_'Are you really so obvious?'_

Sherlock groaned as he quickly pulled his hand away, fighting the wave of embarrassment that flooded his system. He placed _both_ hands on the lip of the wash basin and leaned over it, his head hanging low between his shoulders. "Your timing leaves _so _much to be desired."

_'Apologies, brother mine, but we were rudely interrupted by your outburst earlier.'_

"No, we weren't. I was finished talking about...that."

_'And, I wasn't. There are things that we need to discuss. You need to focus, Sherlock, put this childish infatuation with Doctor Watson aside since it's obviously come to it's natural fruition."_

"You really think it's all so beneath you, don't you?"

His brother sighed, heavy and disheartening. _'Sherlock, for years, you have pined for a man that will not, _can_not return your feelings. How can you _not _see that it is beneath you as well?'_

Sherlock closed his eyes and shook his head because he had no answer to that question.

_'Yes, well,'_ Mycroft cleared his throat, plainly uncomfortable with the sentiment. _'May we focus now? Moriarty-'_

"Oh, my God. Please, Mycroft, I can't. I can't think of that now. Not now." Sherlock was too weary to focus. Too tired to think. He didn't want to weight of the Commonwealth's safety to rest on his shoulders.

His mind flashed the image of eyes, cold and dark, an eerie madness reflected in their black pools and the juxtaposition of a lilting Irish brogue and the cold, damp wind from the roof of St. Bart's and he shuddered in fear.

_Not again. _Sherlock _couldn't_ play his game again.

_'And, what of your doctor, Sherlock? What will become of him, if you don't play? When you know that his own wife-'_

"Shut. Up." he growled, his hands covering his ears as the words rushed out of him. "I'm just not going to do anything about it. If I don't engage, then there is no reason to target me or anyone associated with me."

But, Mycroft was undaunted by Sherlock's fear and near-hysteria. _'You think that will stop him? Do you think _that _will protect John? He's obesessed with you, Sherlock. You gave up your livelihood and went off for two years, doing nothing but dismantling his organization with single-minded focus. Now, he's back and one of his _most_-trusted employees is married to the man you love. The very same person that has shot you, that you _forgave_ for shooting you, that you encouraged John to forgive, as well. Ignoring Moriarty will not make him go away.'_

"Why not? He'll grow bored. He will. If he can't get me to respond, he'll just move on and John will be safe. He'll be safe and that's all that matters."

_'Oh, Sherlock.'_

"I can't do this, Mycroft. Please."

_'Then will you disappear again? Is that the answer? You'll do anything to keep John safe, is that it? You've given everything for this man, Sherlock. What have you left to sacrifice for Doctor Watson?'_

Sherlock finally lifted his head, meeting his own tired pale gaze in the mirror. His skin too pale under the harshness of the overhead light, his chest too thin, his shoulders too narrow- a fascimile of the man he once was.

_What have I left, indeed?_


End file.
